I'm not feeling well today. My husband got everyone ready and off to school and left me here in bed to take it easy so I'll be in better shape to go to work later. The dog is curled up at my feet. I can hear trains going by and the sun is shining outside my window. It's hard to lie still when there is so much to do, but in a minute I'm going to try to sleep again. Just so I don't feel completely unproductive here's a brief story from last week:
Last Tuesday we had a big slushy snowstorm. It made driving dangerous and caused my daughter's choir rehearsal to be cancelled. I drove Quinn to his piano lesson and the normally ten minute drive took us nearly an hour on the way home. I had a rehearsal on the other end of town so as soon as I dropped Quinn off I grabbed my case from the front room and turned right back around to give myself time to navigate the snowy streets.
I got to rehearsal in plenty of time! I even found a good parking space. I used the extra time to catch up on my reading. And at ten to seven I went back into the orchestra room to get out my viola and start warming up.
But there was nothing in my case.
My own space apart from the babble of the internet
Showing posts with label sick. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sick. Show all posts
Monday, March 4, 2013
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Almost Recovered (Babble)
I’m doing better. I’m closer to feeling well at this point than I am
to feeling sick, but I’m still not well. Lots of stuff still needs to
clear its way out of my system but there is a light at the end of the
phlegmy tunnel even though coughing
seems like part of my identity now. When I got home from work on
Saturday I collapsed onto the couch in a prolonged coughing fit and I
heard Mona upstairs say, “Mom’s home!”
It’s been strange to have no sense of smell. I’ve steered toward foods with simple tastes such as salty or sweet just so there is some flavor. So much of taste is really smell, and there is no difference in my world right now between chocolate and vanilla, or even tea and hot water. Watching what you eat is easier when none of it’s appealing, so if I have to find a silver lining I suppose that’s it (even though that silver is arguably tarnished).
I hadn’t given my lack of being able to smell much thought until I took Quinn to his follow up appointment at the hospital. His mouth and throat are completely healed from the tonsillectomy, but he’s been all stuffed up and continuing to snore. Turns out a sizable colony of bacteria took up residence where his adenoids used to be, and the nurse practitioner said, “Can’t you smell that?” Nope. So Quinn now has some nasty tasting antibiotics that he’s being good about not spitting out and he should be all well soon.
When I haven’t been at work or in rehearsals I’ve been in bed. I’m extremely conscious of how much harder this would be if Ian were deployed. Single parenting while sick is such a nightmare. I’ve done it and it’s awful and it makes the illness drag on for months when you can’t get any rest. Two weeks is a long time to be coughing your lungs inside out, but I would be surprised if I’m not myself again soon. If I had to be completely responsible for the kids and the dog and all the cooking and chores I wouldn’t be able to say that.
The one unexpected gift during these past couple of weeks was getting to leave early from orchestra rehearsals. I would sleep all day, then take whatever drugs were necessary to help me survive playing viola for a few hours, and brace myself to last to the end of the 9:30 rehearsal. But after working hard on An American In Paris for an hour and a half the conductor told us anyone who wasn’t playing some particular piece could leave at the break. It took my stand partner and myself a moment of disbelievingly rummaging through our music to realize it was a piece we didn’t have. That never happens. String players are the workhorse of the orchestra. We always have to play, and we’re used to seeing the harp player or the percussion or brass people leave at the break, but never us. It was like a miracle!
I’m used to driving home after a rehearsal through a darkened city. If Milwaukee has a thriving nightlife it’s not one readily visible on my commute through downtown back to the south side. But getting out of orchestra an hour earlier meant some things were still open that I never get to explore, and one of them was the new location of a used bookstore I used to frequent years ago. I decided to take a minute and check it out.
I love bookstores. I browse for classics I should have read by now and novels unknown to me by authors I enjoy. I look for things to buy for other people who love to read. I marvel at the greatness on the shelves and am flummoxed by truly terrible things that made it to print while I still can’t find an agent. I look with admiration for books by people I know personally and dream of a day where maybe one of my novels could be on those shelves as well.
This particular bookstore buys books, and around the time Ian and I moved into our first house (before kids) we sold them several boxes of things we had that we decided we just didn’t need anymore. Most of the books were easy to part with, such as textbooks we knew we’d never reference again, and atlases that were out of date, and fiction that didn’t warrant another read.
But the one book I hesitated over was an anthology called My Friend The Dog. I’d really enjoyed it as a kid, my worn, red copy with no dust jacket. I didn’t know if it was worth hanging onto for my future, as of then still imaginary, children. I put it in the box. I took it out. I just wasn’t sure. I have so many books from my childhood that I planned to pass on to my kids and this particular one seemed borderline. It would be so long before any kids we would have would be old enough for it that it seemed crazy to save, but I have a deep sentimental streak. Eventually my desire to purge overcame my attachment to the book. And it went in the box.
Standing a dozen years later in the same bookstore in it’s bright, new location I was curious. I’ve been thinking about that book because Aden is now the perfect age for it, and she loves dogs. I regretted letting it go. I went to the desk and asked if they happened to have a copy of My Friend The Dog. They looked it up, and said they had a single copy in their warehouse with the ebay books. But it was worn, red, and had no dust jacket. I told them that sounded fine to me. I think I paid for it what they originally gave me for all the boxes of books.
It would make a great story to tell you my childhood copy of that anthology were back in my hands again, but when I went to pick it up I realized this copy was older, smaller, and contained different illustrations. But that’s okay. I’d feel bad for a bookstore that hadn’t been able to move a book in over a decade. And this copy is fine. With luck, it will be one that Aden grows attached to.
Recovery isn’t always what you expect. It’s how you view moving forward that makes all the difference.
It’s been strange to have no sense of smell. I’ve steered toward foods with simple tastes such as salty or sweet just so there is some flavor. So much of taste is really smell, and there is no difference in my world right now between chocolate and vanilla, or even tea and hot water. Watching what you eat is easier when none of it’s appealing, so if I have to find a silver lining I suppose that’s it (even though that silver is arguably tarnished).
I hadn’t given my lack of being able to smell much thought until I took Quinn to his follow up appointment at the hospital. His mouth and throat are completely healed from the tonsillectomy, but he’s been all stuffed up and continuing to snore. Turns out a sizable colony of bacteria took up residence where his adenoids used to be, and the nurse practitioner said, “Can’t you smell that?” Nope. So Quinn now has some nasty tasting antibiotics that he’s being good about not spitting out and he should be all well soon.
When I haven’t been at work or in rehearsals I’ve been in bed. I’m extremely conscious of how much harder this would be if Ian were deployed. Single parenting while sick is such a nightmare. I’ve done it and it’s awful and it makes the illness drag on for months when you can’t get any rest. Two weeks is a long time to be coughing your lungs inside out, but I would be surprised if I’m not myself again soon. If I had to be completely responsible for the kids and the dog and all the cooking and chores I wouldn’t be able to say that.
The one unexpected gift during these past couple of weeks was getting to leave early from orchestra rehearsals. I would sleep all day, then take whatever drugs were necessary to help me survive playing viola for a few hours, and brace myself to last to the end of the 9:30 rehearsal. But after working hard on An American In Paris for an hour and a half the conductor told us anyone who wasn’t playing some particular piece could leave at the break. It took my stand partner and myself a moment of disbelievingly rummaging through our music to realize it was a piece we didn’t have. That never happens. String players are the workhorse of the orchestra. We always have to play, and we’re used to seeing the harp player or the percussion or brass people leave at the break, but never us. It was like a miracle!
I’m used to driving home after a rehearsal through a darkened city. If Milwaukee has a thriving nightlife it’s not one readily visible on my commute through downtown back to the south side. But getting out of orchestra an hour earlier meant some things were still open that I never get to explore, and one of them was the new location of a used bookstore I used to frequent years ago. I decided to take a minute and check it out.
I love bookstores. I browse for classics I should have read by now and novels unknown to me by authors I enjoy. I look for things to buy for other people who love to read. I marvel at the greatness on the shelves and am flummoxed by truly terrible things that made it to print while I still can’t find an agent. I look with admiration for books by people I know personally and dream of a day where maybe one of my novels could be on those shelves as well.
This particular bookstore buys books, and around the time Ian and I moved into our first house (before kids) we sold them several boxes of things we had that we decided we just didn’t need anymore. Most of the books were easy to part with, such as textbooks we knew we’d never reference again, and atlases that were out of date, and fiction that didn’t warrant another read.
But the one book I hesitated over was an anthology called My Friend The Dog. I’d really enjoyed it as a kid, my worn, red copy with no dust jacket. I didn’t know if it was worth hanging onto for my future, as of then still imaginary, children. I put it in the box. I took it out. I just wasn’t sure. I have so many books from my childhood that I planned to pass on to my kids and this particular one seemed borderline. It would be so long before any kids we would have would be old enough for it that it seemed crazy to save, but I have a deep sentimental streak. Eventually my desire to purge overcame my attachment to the book. And it went in the box.
Standing a dozen years later in the same bookstore in it’s bright, new location I was curious. I’ve been thinking about that book because Aden is now the perfect age for it, and she loves dogs. I regretted letting it go. I went to the desk and asked if they happened to have a copy of My Friend The Dog. They looked it up, and said they had a single copy in their warehouse with the ebay books. But it was worn, red, and had no dust jacket. I told them that sounded fine to me. I think I paid for it what they originally gave me for all the boxes of books.
It would make a great story to tell you my childhood copy of that anthology were back in my hands again, but when I went to pick it up I realized this copy was older, smaller, and contained different illustrations. But that’s okay. I’d feel bad for a bookstore that hadn’t been able to move a book in over a decade. And this copy is fine. With luck, it will be one that Aden grows attached to.
Recovery isn’t always what you expect. It’s how you view moving forward that makes all the difference.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Whirlwind (Babble)
How was your Labor Day weekend? Mine was surreal.
I drove out to Detroit and back to visit my dad in the hospital for a couple of days. My dad didn’t resemble himself, hospitals are strange, I think a tornado touched down in my parents’ neighborhood (even though the weather people there kept calling it a wind shear but I don’t think I buy that), the power was (and still is) out so we came back every night to a dark house, dozens of hundred year old trees upended pieces of sidewalk and smashed garages and punctured roofs making the whole area look like a tree-seeking bomb hit it. (What a time to forget my camera.)
So. That was a lot of stuff. And now I’m home and trying to process it all.
I started my trip in our twelve-year-old Hyundai, minus the radio that was stolen out of it last week. (That’s the third time. People keep asking if we lock the doors to the car, but I’d rather lose the radio than have the window smashed and lose the radio, so no, we don’t lock the doors. I guess with the newest one we’ll bring the radio’s faceplate indoors each time.) I brought along an iPod and listened to various podcasts on the insanely boring drive that is the trip from Milwaukee to Detroit.
I stopped in Chicago on the way to say goodbye to my brother and his girlfriend before they moved to Germany. It was too short a visit. I don’t see them enough, and I don’t realize until I’m with them again how much there is to say. I wish we’d had more time, but for some things there is never enough time.
I arrived in my hometown of Pleasant Ridge, MI to find dozens of downed trees. My mom called to warn me ahead of time that there had been a severe storm and there was no power, so I came armed with my favorite flashlight and a headlamp. It took me a while to find a path to the house. The normal route was blocked by fallen power lines and trees, as were several alternate routes, but eventually I found my way. I think our specific block and a couple on either side of it got the worst of the damage. It’s both impressive and sad. I dropped off my things and headed to the hospital around dinnertime.
My dad was awake when I arrived, and glad to see me, but he wasn’t awake for very long. He’s weak and thin. Swallowing anything causes him enormous pain. He fades in and out. He winces in his sleep which is hard to watch. He’s disoriented. He just wants to go home.
The main thing I was able to provide for my dad in the hospital was music. It was too hard to read to him or carry on a conversation because he was seldom conscious for more than half a minute at a time. I put a mute on my instrument to keep the volume lower and played a lot of Bach. My dad loves Bach. There were times I was sure he was sound asleep and I kept playing, only to hear him say without opening his eyes, “Very nice” when I got to the end of a piece. I don’t think there is any applause this season that will mean as much as those quiet words.
There are several good things about playing live music for someone in the hospital; it blocks out all the beeping and chatter that is a constant part of life there, you can sleep to it or actively listen and it’s all fine, and I think it help set my dad apart as a patient. Everyone in the oncology ward said they liked hearing the music, and I would see people pause in the doorway as I played. (One nurse was even proud to have figured out I was playing a viola, not a violin.) I think anything that draws attention to the fact that my dad is loved and adored gives him an advantage in an environment that is dehumanizing, and now even the people who don’t deal with him directly know he’s the man whose daughter plays music for him. He’s not just some old man hooked up to a million tubes. He’s special. He’s my dad.
Mom and I didn’t stay until the very end of visiting hours each night because it helped to get back to the house while there was still some natural light. Having the power out at home was such a strange added twist to the trip. We walked around the house in headlamps and never got over the habit of flicking the light switches when we walked into certain rooms. We could still use the stove top if we lit the gas ourselves with a match, but cooking in the dark is weird. My first night home it was warm enough we went for a long walk. (The temperature dropped by about thirty degrees not long after I arrived and I hadn’t packed for that. Mom gave me a jacket but for the most part I was really cold in Michigan.)
It’s hard to describe what the storm did to my old neighborhood. No one was hurt, and most of the houses were spared, but the few that got whomped by trees really got whomped. Several garages were crushed, as were a few cars. My parents’ property was spared, which is good because I don’t know how they could handle one more thing. With luck insurance will do what insurance is supposed to, and I’m hoping nothing too personal was lost by any of the people who experienced damage to their property. It’s a lot of expense and inconvenience but probably not the end of the world for most of the neighbors. The thing that has changed is the general look and character of the street. The trees that came down were about a century old, most of them on personal property, not city trees. (Although the ones by the street that came down ripped up the sidewalks, which was something to see.) There is a lot of light suddenly where no one is used to seeing it. Everyone’s view has changed.
I’m glad I was able to be there with my mom at such a strange and trying time. It felt good to make her laugh. I made her go with me into the chapel at the hospital and I taught her how to play Heart and Soul. The place was empty, and my mom looked alarmed when I sat down at the piano because she thought we were being disrespectful. But to paraphrase Kurt Vonnegut, all music is sacred. And music makes things better so I didn’t feel for a moment we were doing anything wrong. I bossed mom around on the keyboard until she was able to poke out enough of a bass line to play along with, and she laughed and wiped at her eyes. It was worth the drive to Michigan just for that.
My dad was doing well enough when I left late on Tuesday that I felt it was okay for me to go home. The medication that sent him to the ICU (Xeloda) had horrible effects on his body and he nearly died, but the ever encouraging and kind Dr. Pearlman said we’re past the hump and dad was improving. I trust him. All the nurses were excellent, and I am forever impressed at how caring yet firm the physical therapy people are.
On the downside, some people in hospitals need to remember that discussions about life and death are not casual events for many of us. One well-meaning young doctor rattled my mother badly in the hall when she stopped us on the way to lunch to ask if we had orders in place about whether or not to revive my dad if he got suddenly worse. She saw a frail man with stage four cancer and was calling things as she saw them based on her everyday experiences, but she doesn’t know how hard my dad wants to fight. She just kept saying, “Because he’s really very sick, and if you’re not here we need to know whether you want us to let him go if his heart stops.” My mom was flustered as she explained that at this point in time we’re quite sure my dad would want to be revived if possible and of course she’d signed papers to that effect.
It was not appropriate to approach us in that way. We had been feeling okay on our way to lunch, and that doctor destroyed our equanimity for the day. There was also a palliative specialist who talked to my mom only in terms of dad never leaving the hospital and how to go about pulling the plug. I hope we never see either of those doctors again. I know there is a time and a place for those important discussions, but they shouldn’t have been sprung on us when what we needed was reassurance.
On the drive back to Milwaukee I thought about the trees of my childhood. When I was little, Pleasant Ridge was filled with huge, majestic elms with limbs that spread out like fountains shading all the streets. When I was nine, our neighborhood, like much of the nation, was struck by Dutch elm disease. We lost all of those trees. The neighborhood seemed unbearably bright for a long time. But the truth is that there were many smaller trees in the neighborhood that could suddenly reach for the light. I looked around my old street before I left, past the endless rows of tree removal trucks and wood chippers, the debris in the streets, and damaged maples with what was left of their splintery limbs poking at the sky while awaiting chainsaws and cranes coming to take them down. I saw the new generation of smaller trees, some of which had grown up leaning odd directions just to find some sun. The neighborhood will be different, and for a while it will be unbearably bright. But now the new trees have a chance to grow into new roles.
It won’t be the same, this new view, but for some it will be the view they grow up with. The new view will become home.
I drove out to Detroit and back to visit my dad in the hospital for a couple of days. My dad didn’t resemble himself, hospitals are strange, I think a tornado touched down in my parents’ neighborhood (even though the weather people there kept calling it a wind shear but I don’t think I buy that), the power was (and still is) out so we came back every night to a dark house, dozens of hundred year old trees upended pieces of sidewalk and smashed garages and punctured roofs making the whole area look like a tree-seeking bomb hit it. (What a time to forget my camera.)
So. That was a lot of stuff. And now I’m home and trying to process it all.
I started my trip in our twelve-year-old Hyundai, minus the radio that was stolen out of it last week. (That’s the third time. People keep asking if we lock the doors to the car, but I’d rather lose the radio than have the window smashed and lose the radio, so no, we don’t lock the doors. I guess with the newest one we’ll bring the radio’s faceplate indoors each time.) I brought along an iPod and listened to various podcasts on the insanely boring drive that is the trip from Milwaukee to Detroit.
I stopped in Chicago on the way to say goodbye to my brother and his girlfriend before they moved to Germany. It was too short a visit. I don’t see them enough, and I don’t realize until I’m with them again how much there is to say. I wish we’d had more time, but for some things there is never enough time.
I arrived in my hometown of Pleasant Ridge, MI to find dozens of downed trees. My mom called to warn me ahead of time that there had been a severe storm and there was no power, so I came armed with my favorite flashlight and a headlamp. It took me a while to find a path to the house. The normal route was blocked by fallen power lines and trees, as were several alternate routes, but eventually I found my way. I think our specific block and a couple on either side of it got the worst of the damage. It’s both impressive and sad. I dropped off my things and headed to the hospital around dinnertime.
My dad was awake when I arrived, and glad to see me, but he wasn’t awake for very long. He’s weak and thin. Swallowing anything causes him enormous pain. He fades in and out. He winces in his sleep which is hard to watch. He’s disoriented. He just wants to go home.
The main thing I was able to provide for my dad in the hospital was music. It was too hard to read to him or carry on a conversation because he was seldom conscious for more than half a minute at a time. I put a mute on my instrument to keep the volume lower and played a lot of Bach. My dad loves Bach. There were times I was sure he was sound asleep and I kept playing, only to hear him say without opening his eyes, “Very nice” when I got to the end of a piece. I don’t think there is any applause this season that will mean as much as those quiet words.
There are several good things about playing live music for someone in the hospital; it blocks out all the beeping and chatter that is a constant part of life there, you can sleep to it or actively listen and it’s all fine, and I think it help set my dad apart as a patient. Everyone in the oncology ward said they liked hearing the music, and I would see people pause in the doorway as I played. (One nurse was even proud to have figured out I was playing a viola, not a violin.) I think anything that draws attention to the fact that my dad is loved and adored gives him an advantage in an environment that is dehumanizing, and now even the people who don’t deal with him directly know he’s the man whose daughter plays music for him. He’s not just some old man hooked up to a million tubes. He’s special. He’s my dad.
Mom and I didn’t stay until the very end of visiting hours each night because it helped to get back to the house while there was still some natural light. Having the power out at home was such a strange added twist to the trip. We walked around the house in headlamps and never got over the habit of flicking the light switches when we walked into certain rooms. We could still use the stove top if we lit the gas ourselves with a match, but cooking in the dark is weird. My first night home it was warm enough we went for a long walk. (The temperature dropped by about thirty degrees not long after I arrived and I hadn’t packed for that. Mom gave me a jacket but for the most part I was really cold in Michigan.)
It’s hard to describe what the storm did to my old neighborhood. No one was hurt, and most of the houses were spared, but the few that got whomped by trees really got whomped. Several garages were crushed, as were a few cars. My parents’ property was spared, which is good because I don’t know how they could handle one more thing. With luck insurance will do what insurance is supposed to, and I’m hoping nothing too personal was lost by any of the people who experienced damage to their property. It’s a lot of expense and inconvenience but probably not the end of the world for most of the neighbors. The thing that has changed is the general look and character of the street. The trees that came down were about a century old, most of them on personal property, not city trees. (Although the ones by the street that came down ripped up the sidewalks, which was something to see.) There is a lot of light suddenly where no one is used to seeing it. Everyone’s view has changed.
I’m glad I was able to be there with my mom at such a strange and trying time. It felt good to make her laugh. I made her go with me into the chapel at the hospital and I taught her how to play Heart and Soul. The place was empty, and my mom looked alarmed when I sat down at the piano because she thought we were being disrespectful. But to paraphrase Kurt Vonnegut, all music is sacred. And music makes things better so I didn’t feel for a moment we were doing anything wrong. I bossed mom around on the keyboard until she was able to poke out enough of a bass line to play along with, and she laughed and wiped at her eyes. It was worth the drive to Michigan just for that.
My dad was doing well enough when I left late on Tuesday that I felt it was okay for me to go home. The medication that sent him to the ICU (Xeloda) had horrible effects on his body and he nearly died, but the ever encouraging and kind Dr. Pearlman said we’re past the hump and dad was improving. I trust him. All the nurses were excellent, and I am forever impressed at how caring yet firm the physical therapy people are.
On the downside, some people in hospitals need to remember that discussions about life and death are not casual events for many of us. One well-meaning young doctor rattled my mother badly in the hall when she stopped us on the way to lunch to ask if we had orders in place about whether or not to revive my dad if he got suddenly worse. She saw a frail man with stage four cancer and was calling things as she saw them based on her everyday experiences, but she doesn’t know how hard my dad wants to fight. She just kept saying, “Because he’s really very sick, and if you’re not here we need to know whether you want us to let him go if his heart stops.” My mom was flustered as she explained that at this point in time we’re quite sure my dad would want to be revived if possible and of course she’d signed papers to that effect.
It was not appropriate to approach us in that way. We had been feeling okay on our way to lunch, and that doctor destroyed our equanimity for the day. There was also a palliative specialist who talked to my mom only in terms of dad never leaving the hospital and how to go about pulling the plug. I hope we never see either of those doctors again. I know there is a time and a place for those important discussions, but they shouldn’t have been sprung on us when what we needed was reassurance.
On the drive back to Milwaukee I thought about the trees of my childhood. When I was little, Pleasant Ridge was filled with huge, majestic elms with limbs that spread out like fountains shading all the streets. When I was nine, our neighborhood, like much of the nation, was struck by Dutch elm disease. We lost all of those trees. The neighborhood seemed unbearably bright for a long time. But the truth is that there were many smaller trees in the neighborhood that could suddenly reach for the light. I looked around my old street before I left, past the endless rows of tree removal trucks and wood chippers, the debris in the streets, and damaged maples with what was left of their splintery limbs poking at the sky while awaiting chainsaws and cranes coming to take them down. I saw the new generation of smaller trees, some of which had grown up leaning odd directions just to find some sun. The neighborhood will be different, and for a while it will be unbearably bright. But now the new trees have a chance to grow into new roles.
It won’t be the same, this new view, but for some it will be the view they grow up with. The new view will become home.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Home Sweet Hugs (Babble)
I’m home! As in Milwaukee-home-where-I-live-now, and not in Detroit-home-where-I-grew-up.
A week and a half away and my kids didn’t change that much. See?
(They’re all wearing the bee shirts my mom made for them, which they weren’t able to open on Christmas.) Cute as proverbial buttons. Or even literal buttons, assuming said buttons are darned cute.
Returning home is always an interesting experience to me. Either direction, actually. This was the longest period of time I’ve spent in the home where I grew up since having kids without my kids along. It was roughly the same amount of time I spent apart from my kids when I was in Alaska a couple of years ago. When I think about how hard a week and a half away from my children was, I’m struck anew at how big a sacrifice it was for my husband to be away from them for a year or more. I don’t think I could stand it.
Being in my childhood home with my mom and my brother was nice. The hospital wore me out, but dad got stronger every day so the experience was a hopeful one overall. I forgot just how noisy the house is in the winter when the radiators ping and bang, and my mom has finally had enough of our complaints about the shower and is getting that improved. I fixed the toilet myself. Arno helped my mom set up her new computer and even got wireless internet working in the house after a long drawn out phone saga with all kinds of tech people around the world. I introduced my mom to the joys of Project Runway on Hulu. I wish I’d had more time with my niece and my other brother and his girlfriend, but our visits overlapped just long enough to say hello. My shift was done.
I love my family so much and they are so interesting that I always think of myself as the lucky one for getting to be in their lives. I never think of anyone as being lucky to be with me, particularly. But my dad was so happy in the hospital every time he woke up and saw me sitting next to him. Just being there made a difference. My mom made sure I knew how much she loved having me home.
And Arno said, “Apart from the hospital, hasn’t this been fun?” I never think of Arno as missing me, really. I know he lovers me, but his life is busy and filled with colorful and brilliant characters and I’m just me. But when I left after breakfast I said goodbye to mom and Krisite in the kitchen, and Barrett and Ellora outside as they went to walk the dog, and Arno put on his coat just to come give me one more hug. Then he stood on the sidewalk and watched me drive away. When I looked in the mirror before turning the corner at the end of the block and saw him still there I burst into tears. How strange life is, that dark circumstances can offer up some of the greatest light. Who knows the next time I’ll have the opportunity to spend that much time with my brother again? What a rare and lovely thing.
The drive home was snowy and long and grey and dull, but I didn’t hit traffic jams in Chicago or construction in Indiana or need to call Triple-A for anything, so that was great. And then I got to be home. The new home at the other end of the drive from the old home. I love being home. I missed my husband and my kids and my bed and my regular shampoo.
Ian said the kids did fine without me. Quinn wouldn’t speak to me on the phone when I called because he was mad, but otherwise he went about life as usual. When I came in the back door last night he was all smiles and hugs and seems to have forgiven me.
Considering this was how he looked when I told him I was leaving I’m relieved.
I was braced for some kind of cold-shoulder, tantrum-like punishment, but he’d rather just draw me pictures and hug my legs while I try to walk, so I’m not complaining. Aden was cheerful on the phone when I would check in and didn’t seem to have a problem with my being away, but when I returned she spent a few hours being rather tearful and clingy. Mona, who I would have expected to weather things the best, cried a little every night about missing me, and wept on the phone. She asked if she could please sleep in my bed last night, so Ian graciously agreed to sleep in Quinn’s lower bunk so I could get some snuggle time in with my little girl. She said she’d be fine with going back to her own bed tonight. I sometimes think experience with deployment may have left my children more skittish than average when it comes to a parent being absent for any extended period. Or not. I may never know.
The funny thing to me about travel is how fast the experience can seem to close up behind you when you return home. I remember after spending a month in India (before we had kids) getting into the bathtub soon after we walked in the door and lying there past the point where the water was warm because I knew if I got out and walked into my old routine that India would start to fade, and I wasn’t ready for that. I wanted to keep India and the new things I’d learned a little longer. But there is no haggling with auto-rickshaw drivers in Milwaukee or eating off banana leaves or leaping on or off of moving trains. It all receded into a distinct place known as the past with astonishing speed.
Same thing with my time in Detroit. It felt very long while I was there. I created a new rhythm for my days from hospital hours and my parents’ needs and my brother’s availability. It’s odd to have that time shrink in my memory as I get back to life with Ian and the kids and the violin store. It was difficult to see my dad in pain, but inspiring to see him improve. I have complete confidence that he’s in good hands with the help he has currently, so it’s not as nerve wracking for me now that I’m back in Milwaukee. I need to return to the life I’ve created here, and I don’t feel guilty anymore for leading it, which I did before the trip.
It’s nice to feel helpful, needed, welcomed and loved, at either end of my journey.
(Arno, Barrett, Kristie and Ellora–some of the best company for breakfast ever.)
A week and a half away and my kids didn’t change that much. See?
(They’re all wearing the bee shirts my mom made for them, which they weren’t able to open on Christmas.) Cute as proverbial buttons. Or even literal buttons, assuming said buttons are darned cute.
Returning home is always an interesting experience to me. Either direction, actually. This was the longest period of time I’ve spent in the home where I grew up since having kids without my kids along. It was roughly the same amount of time I spent apart from my kids when I was in Alaska a couple of years ago. When I think about how hard a week and a half away from my children was, I’m struck anew at how big a sacrifice it was for my husband to be away from them for a year or more. I don’t think I could stand it.
Being in my childhood home with my mom and my brother was nice. The hospital wore me out, but dad got stronger every day so the experience was a hopeful one overall. I forgot just how noisy the house is in the winter when the radiators ping and bang, and my mom has finally had enough of our complaints about the shower and is getting that improved. I fixed the toilet myself. Arno helped my mom set up her new computer and even got wireless internet working in the house after a long drawn out phone saga with all kinds of tech people around the world. I introduced my mom to the joys of Project Runway on Hulu. I wish I’d had more time with my niece and my other brother and his girlfriend, but our visits overlapped just long enough to say hello. My shift was done.
I love my family so much and they are so interesting that I always think of myself as the lucky one for getting to be in their lives. I never think of anyone as being lucky to be with me, particularly. But my dad was so happy in the hospital every time he woke up and saw me sitting next to him. Just being there made a difference. My mom made sure I knew how much she loved having me home.
And Arno said, “Apart from the hospital, hasn’t this been fun?” I never think of Arno as missing me, really. I know he lovers me, but his life is busy and filled with colorful and brilliant characters and I’m just me. But when I left after breakfast I said goodbye to mom and Krisite in the kitchen, and Barrett and Ellora outside as they went to walk the dog, and Arno put on his coat just to come give me one more hug. Then he stood on the sidewalk and watched me drive away. When I looked in the mirror before turning the corner at the end of the block and saw him still there I burst into tears. How strange life is, that dark circumstances can offer up some of the greatest light. Who knows the next time I’ll have the opportunity to spend that much time with my brother again? What a rare and lovely thing.
The drive home was snowy and long and grey and dull, but I didn’t hit traffic jams in Chicago or construction in Indiana or need to call Triple-A for anything, so that was great. And then I got to be home. The new home at the other end of the drive from the old home. I love being home. I missed my husband and my kids and my bed and my regular shampoo.
Ian said the kids did fine without me. Quinn wouldn’t speak to me on the phone when I called because he was mad, but otherwise he went about life as usual. When I came in the back door last night he was all smiles and hugs and seems to have forgiven me.
Considering this was how he looked when I told him I was leaving I’m relieved.
I was braced for some kind of cold-shoulder, tantrum-like punishment, but he’d rather just draw me pictures and hug my legs while I try to walk, so I’m not complaining. Aden was cheerful on the phone when I would check in and didn’t seem to have a problem with my being away, but when I returned she spent a few hours being rather tearful and clingy. Mona, who I would have expected to weather things the best, cried a little every night about missing me, and wept on the phone. She asked if she could please sleep in my bed last night, so Ian graciously agreed to sleep in Quinn’s lower bunk so I could get some snuggle time in with my little girl. She said she’d be fine with going back to her own bed tonight. I sometimes think experience with deployment may have left my children more skittish than average when it comes to a parent being absent for any extended period. Or not. I may never know.
The funny thing to me about travel is how fast the experience can seem to close up behind you when you return home. I remember after spending a month in India (before we had kids) getting into the bathtub soon after we walked in the door and lying there past the point where the water was warm because I knew if I got out and walked into my old routine that India would start to fade, and I wasn’t ready for that. I wanted to keep India and the new things I’d learned a little longer. But there is no haggling with auto-rickshaw drivers in Milwaukee or eating off banana leaves or leaping on or off of moving trains. It all receded into a distinct place known as the past with astonishing speed.
Same thing with my time in Detroit. It felt very long while I was there. I created a new rhythm for my days from hospital hours and my parents’ needs and my brother’s availability. It’s odd to have that time shrink in my memory as I get back to life with Ian and the kids and the violin store. It was difficult to see my dad in pain, but inspiring to see him improve. I have complete confidence that he’s in good hands with the help he has currently, so it’s not as nerve wracking for me now that I’m back in Milwaukee. I need to return to the life I’ve created here, and I don’t feel guilty anymore for leading it, which I did before the trip.
It’s nice to feel helpful, needed, welcomed and loved, at either end of my journey.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Hospital Mysteries (Babble)
My dad just moved into in-house rehab. This is good news. He needed
to fit into a very narrow band of criteria in order to qualify for it;
too weak, not a candidate, too strong, they can’t take him either. He’s
just the right amount of upright but wobbly to qualify. This will give
him a chance to gain some strength while buying us some time to prepare
for him coming home, so we’re happy.
In the meantime, I’ve had many long days to contemplate things about the hospital. I think my biggest complaint would be that there is no organized system of making sure the different specialists can talk to the family. It’s very hit or miss. Out of 12 hours by my dad’s side yesterday, the 20 minutes I left to walk around and get some feeling back in my legs was the same time a flurry of doctors came through to provide an update. I love my dad, but he is not a reliable source for relaying medical information, so we have no idea what the doctors said. I know the medical people visiting his room have charts to refer to, to keep them up to speed, but there should be a layperson’s version. A single page report at the end of the day listing the doctors who visited and what they had to say, along with times of blood draws and what medicines were administered or any tests that were done along with their results, etc. How hard could that be? Boy that would be helpful.
Also, the food service seems to have no connection to the doctors’ orders. We kept receiving trays of food for my dad filled with things he wasn’t allowed to eat. Why isn’t the hospital menu divided clearly into categories, like ‘liquid diet’ and ‘soft diet,’ etc.? My dad is easing his way back into eating real food and the kitchen sent up potato chips. We had to argue with him about how they were too much for his system and confiscate the bag like he was a kid, but they never should have sent it up in the first place.
On a less medically related note, I’ve also had time during my average 12 hour shifts at the hospital to explore the gift shop, parking lot, and cafeteria here. And there are some things we just don’t understand. These are my hospital mysteries.
There is the lady in the booth in the parking lot. She waves to us every morning. When nobody is in the booth the gate still goes up on its own to let us into the lot, so that appears to be automatic. We have no idea what the lady in the booth is really doing. But we wave to her and hope she likes her job.
There is a dramatic staircase to nowhere that I don’t get.
The cafeteria appears to be filled with food, but there is not much to eat. There aren’t many places to go to get a break from the hospital room, so we end up in the cafeteria a lot. I think I’m hungry until I get there. And then I look at each thing and think, “Nah.” Arno ended up with a tray of cottage cheese, beets, yogurt and a banana. He says his only regret is he didn’t put more beets on the cottage cheese. Although, to be fair, that didn’t look that different from meals I’ve seen Arno assemble by choice, so hard to judge. But I paid almost five dollars for a sad little turkey burger which I ate while walking around and then was bored again. But I keep looking at all the food and wondering why there’s nothing to eat.
But here is the real mystery in the cafeteria: The “multi-purpose spoons.”
Apparently the knives and forks can only serve a single purpose, but spoons are multi-functional. In my opinion this merely shows a lack of imagination on the part of people labeling the knives and forks, but still, it’s intriguing. (If you are bored out of your mind and paying your third trip of the day to the cafeteria because it is the only place to go.)
In any case, my dad is looking more like himself, and soon my brother, Barrett, will be here to assist for awhile and I can head home to Milwaukee. I’m glad I’ve been able to help here, but I miss Ian and the kids, and I’m sure there is a lot of work waiting for me at the violin store. But maybe I’ll get caught up sooner than expected now that I know I can count on the versatility of all the spoons I have lying around.
I’m looking forward to being home–no mystery there.
In the meantime, I’ve had many long days to contemplate things about the hospital. I think my biggest complaint would be that there is no organized system of making sure the different specialists can talk to the family. It’s very hit or miss. Out of 12 hours by my dad’s side yesterday, the 20 minutes I left to walk around and get some feeling back in my legs was the same time a flurry of doctors came through to provide an update. I love my dad, but he is not a reliable source for relaying medical information, so we have no idea what the doctors said. I know the medical people visiting his room have charts to refer to, to keep them up to speed, but there should be a layperson’s version. A single page report at the end of the day listing the doctors who visited and what they had to say, along with times of blood draws and what medicines were administered or any tests that were done along with their results, etc. How hard could that be? Boy that would be helpful.
Also, the food service seems to have no connection to the doctors’ orders. We kept receiving trays of food for my dad filled with things he wasn’t allowed to eat. Why isn’t the hospital menu divided clearly into categories, like ‘liquid diet’ and ‘soft diet,’ etc.? My dad is easing his way back into eating real food and the kitchen sent up potato chips. We had to argue with him about how they were too much for his system and confiscate the bag like he was a kid, but they never should have sent it up in the first place.
On a less medically related note, I’ve also had time during my average 12 hour shifts at the hospital to explore the gift shop, parking lot, and cafeteria here. And there are some things we just don’t understand. These are my hospital mysteries.
There is the lady in the booth in the parking lot. She waves to us every morning. When nobody is in the booth the gate still goes up on its own to let us into the lot, so that appears to be automatic. We have no idea what the lady in the booth is really doing. But we wave to her and hope she likes her job.
There is a dramatic staircase to nowhere that I don’t get.
The cafeteria appears to be filled with food, but there is not much to eat. There aren’t many places to go to get a break from the hospital room, so we end up in the cafeteria a lot. I think I’m hungry until I get there. And then I look at each thing and think, “Nah.” Arno ended up with a tray of cottage cheese, beets, yogurt and a banana. He says his only regret is he didn’t put more beets on the cottage cheese. Although, to be fair, that didn’t look that different from meals I’ve seen Arno assemble by choice, so hard to judge. But I paid almost five dollars for a sad little turkey burger which I ate while walking around and then was bored again. But I keep looking at all the food and wondering why there’s nothing to eat.
But here is the real mystery in the cafeteria: The “multi-purpose spoons.”
Apparently the knives and forks can only serve a single purpose, but spoons are multi-functional. In my opinion this merely shows a lack of imagination on the part of people labeling the knives and forks, but still, it’s intriguing. (If you are bored out of your mind and paying your third trip of the day to the cafeteria because it is the only place to go.)
In any case, my dad is looking more like himself, and soon my brother, Barrett, will be here to assist for awhile and I can head home to Milwaukee. I’m glad I’ve been able to help here, but I miss Ian and the kids, and I’m sure there is a lot of work waiting for me at the violin store. But maybe I’ll get caught up sooner than expected now that I know I can count on the versatility of all the spoons I have lying around.
I’m looking forward to being home–no mystery there.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Aden the Cook (Babble)
I’m not feeling well this morning. All night I had a dizzy thing
going on. I felt (feel) a bit queasy, and every time I opened my eyes
the room was spinning around like I’d just gotten off a tilt-a-whirl.
Very weird.
Anyway, Ian decided not to go do work at the violin store today until I’m feeling more normal and told me to just stay in bed for a bit. I’m still kind of in the mindset I had when he was gone that I don’t get to rest because there are kids to take care of, so it seems odd to be just sitting doing nothing. I took some ibuprofen, I checked email. Ian told the kids I wasn’t feeling well so they played more quietly than usual.
I was glad when Mona conveniently forgot she wasn’t supposed to disturb me and came bounding onto my bed. She and Quinn cuddled up while we did “school” on my laptop. We’ve been trying to get them ready for school starting up next week, so for the past few weeks we’ve had a rule about no screen time until all of them have had a half hour of school review. We have a white board propped up in front of the fireplace and Mona works on writing her numbers clearly and writing out her full name and copying words and sentences. Aden works on spelling and writing her address and multiplication tables. (Although the most important thing I’ve probably taught her in the past couple of weeks was how to play Heart and Soul on the keyboard. She’ll get some good social mileage out of that in third grade.) Quinn can write out most of his alphabet and numbers, and he likes learning about telling time. (My favorite was the morning I asked him to write the numbers one through ten, so he carefully wrote a one, and then a ten, and said he was done. I knew to explain it better for next time.)
All my kids like these flash cards I picked up from the dollar bin with landmarks on them, although they can’t remember the Alamo is in Texas and they think Big Ben is in the United States somewhere. This morning I just typed sentences on my computer for Mona to read out loud, mostly about dogs and purple bunnies to make her laugh. Quinn typed out the alphabet of his own accord, and then everyone left again and I realized I was hungry but too dizzy to want to go downstairs.
(Mona on a typical morning doing “school.”)
And then, Aden appeared. She’s so grown up lately. I just can’t get over how tall and capable she is anymore. She’d made me breakfast in bed.
Now, Aden is a sweetheart, and she has been making me some form of breakfast in bed for years when I’m not feeling well or on my birthday or some such occasion, but she’s old enough now that it’s not just cute, it’s good. When she was three she once brought me two uncooked eggs on a plate, a fork and a napkin. Today she brought me rice crispies in milk with a spoon, a hard boiled egg on a plate, toast, butter on a bunny dish with a little knife, and a cup of water. It was just what I needed. She sat with me while I ate and we looked at pictures of cute animals doing cute things on my laptop. She said she was worried about me trying to walk down the stairs but thought I might be hungry. I told her someday she’d make a great mommy and she looked very pleased.
I’m so impressed with the person she is and the adult she’s becoming. She’s got a few habits and quirks I wish I could wave a wand and fix, but the same is true of myself so I try not to hold her to too high a standard. I love that she wants to do more things on her own and still be my little girl. She makes a really good omelette. And yesterday she and Quinn asked if they could make sugar cookies and they did everything on their own but put the cookie sheet in the oven. (I’ve even told Aden I trust her to do that, but she doesn’t want to, yet.) I could hear them in the kitchen together with the recipe book, cracking eggs and running the mixer.
Aden made cookies the first time essentially on her own when she was four. She wanted cookies and I needed to work (and Ian was deployed for the first time so he wasn’t available to help), so I had the recipe next to me on the violin bench and I would explain each step as needed and she’d run off to the kitchen. I’d tell her to do things like find a measuring cup with a 1/2 on it and fill it with flour five times in a row, and leave her to it. She followed rules like ‘no adding things to the mixer while it was running,’ and I figured the worst that could happen was a messy kitchen and some nasty cookie dough that we have to do over, but aside from a delicious smelling accident with the vanilla she did fine.
(Aden on Christmas in 2006 with her first Easy Bake Oven creations.)
(Aden a couple of weeks ago with a perfect omelette.)
In any case, I’m feeling a lot better than a few hours ago. If I have another dizzy night tonight I’ll call the doctor, but today breakfast prepared by my daughter and served on a tray that used to belong to my grandma seems to have set me right.
Aden wants to tackle pancakes next. Sounds good to me! By next year breakfast in bed might be really something. I love my Aden the cook.
Anyway, Ian decided not to go do work at the violin store today until I’m feeling more normal and told me to just stay in bed for a bit. I’m still kind of in the mindset I had when he was gone that I don’t get to rest because there are kids to take care of, so it seems odd to be just sitting doing nothing. I took some ibuprofen, I checked email. Ian told the kids I wasn’t feeling well so they played more quietly than usual.
I was glad when Mona conveniently forgot she wasn’t supposed to disturb me and came bounding onto my bed. She and Quinn cuddled up while we did “school” on my laptop. We’ve been trying to get them ready for school starting up next week, so for the past few weeks we’ve had a rule about no screen time until all of them have had a half hour of school review. We have a white board propped up in front of the fireplace and Mona works on writing her numbers clearly and writing out her full name and copying words and sentences. Aden works on spelling and writing her address and multiplication tables. (Although the most important thing I’ve probably taught her in the past couple of weeks was how to play Heart and Soul on the keyboard. She’ll get some good social mileage out of that in third grade.) Quinn can write out most of his alphabet and numbers, and he likes learning about telling time. (My favorite was the morning I asked him to write the numbers one through ten, so he carefully wrote a one, and then a ten, and said he was done. I knew to explain it better for next time.)
All my kids like these flash cards I picked up from the dollar bin with landmarks on them, although they can’t remember the Alamo is in Texas and they think Big Ben is in the United States somewhere. This morning I just typed sentences on my computer for Mona to read out loud, mostly about dogs and purple bunnies to make her laugh. Quinn typed out the alphabet of his own accord, and then everyone left again and I realized I was hungry but too dizzy to want to go downstairs.
And then, Aden appeared. She’s so grown up lately. I just can’t get over how tall and capable she is anymore. She’d made me breakfast in bed.
Now, Aden is a sweetheart, and she has been making me some form of breakfast in bed for years when I’m not feeling well or on my birthday or some such occasion, but she’s old enough now that it’s not just cute, it’s good. When she was three she once brought me two uncooked eggs on a plate, a fork and a napkin. Today she brought me rice crispies in milk with a spoon, a hard boiled egg on a plate, toast, butter on a bunny dish with a little knife, and a cup of water. It was just what I needed. She sat with me while I ate and we looked at pictures of cute animals doing cute things on my laptop. She said she was worried about me trying to walk down the stairs but thought I might be hungry. I told her someday she’d make a great mommy and she looked very pleased.
I’m so impressed with the person she is and the adult she’s becoming. She’s got a few habits and quirks I wish I could wave a wand and fix, but the same is true of myself so I try not to hold her to too high a standard. I love that she wants to do more things on her own and still be my little girl. She makes a really good omelette. And yesterday she and Quinn asked if they could make sugar cookies and they did everything on their own but put the cookie sheet in the oven. (I’ve even told Aden I trust her to do that, but she doesn’t want to, yet.) I could hear them in the kitchen together with the recipe book, cracking eggs and running the mixer.
Aden made cookies the first time essentially on her own when she was four. She wanted cookies and I needed to work (and Ian was deployed for the first time so he wasn’t available to help), so I had the recipe next to me on the violin bench and I would explain each step as needed and she’d run off to the kitchen. I’d tell her to do things like find a measuring cup with a 1/2 on it and fill it with flour five times in a row, and leave her to it. She followed rules like ‘no adding things to the mixer while it was running,’ and I figured the worst that could happen was a messy kitchen and some nasty cookie dough that we have to do over, but aside from a delicious smelling accident with the vanilla she did fine.
In any case, I’m feeling a lot better than a few hours ago. If I have another dizzy night tonight I’ll call the doctor, but today breakfast prepared by my daughter and served on a tray that used to belong to my grandma seems to have set me right.
Aden wants to tackle pancakes next. Sounds good to me! By next year breakfast in bed might be really something. I love my Aden the cook.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Sick (Babble)
I’m writing this post from under a pile of blankets in my bed. I’ve
been ‘banking’ blog posts this past week so that new ones will keep
running even while I’m unavailable–as we gear up for Ian to go. By the
time this post runs I will be well again and Ian will be gone. But from
here in my bed right this moment I can hear everything and appreciate
how wonderful Ian is, and dread the possibilities of getting sick like
this while he’s away.
When we came back from our trip to the cottage both Aden and I got sick. Aden has a long history of complicated sinus infections that crop up now and then and are hard to shake. We have a nebulizer at home and when she starts getting a cough we put her on the nebulizer before bed and it buys us time for her to heal herself rather than run off to the doctor. Since we didn’t have the nebulizer at the cottage her condition got away from us this time and she got pretty sick. She didn’t seem deathly ill, because she was still literally dancing around and asking for play dates and being her bright-eyed sweet self, so we sent her to school with what we thought was just a cough. The school nurse took one listen and had me come pick her up, and the doctor declared her close to pneumonia. She told us if Aden were three and not seven she would have been hospitalized. Definitely one of those moments as a mom where I felt like I’d failed, but it’s so hard to tell when they need a doctor and when it’s nothing, and this time we guessed wrong. Now Aden’s on medicine that she complains about and has a strict routine with the nebulizer. The whining about the taste of the medicine is a good sign that she’s feeling like herself.
Mona, Quinn, and Ian all coughed briefly and bounced back. I was not bouncy. I saw a couple of people with appointments at the violin shop my first day back, and then Ian told me to go home and crawl in bed. I’ve spent most of my time here ever since, but today I’m feeling like myself again. I sweated under blankets and used up a whole box of kleenex and now I’m ready to go. All I really needed was rest and thanks to Ian I got it. I remember how impossible it was to be sick during his last deployment. At one point I had a bout of mastitis that I thought was the flu when Quinn was small and I felt like I was going to die. But it makes no difference to babies and small children if you feel that way, so I still dragged myself around the house, making breakfast and filling sippy cups and nursing Quinn and putting shoes on little feet. Now it’s an ugly blur but it’s amazing looking back to realize what you can do when you have no choice.
My heart goes out to single parents. Ian was raised alone by his mother and I’m in awe of the job she did. It’s beyond difficult. There are days even two parents aren’t enough. I remember when Aden was a baby and my brother Barrett came to visit, having that third adult in the house was magic. Ian and I could go out together to run an errand and Aden could still play or sleep at home. It’s hard enough when things are fine, but throw sickness into the mix and it’s ridiculous. I’ve really appreciated this chance to curl up in bed and get better. I know with Ian gone I’d be sick for weeks because rest would not be an option.
But when I do get sick again I know better than to whine. I will try to have enough sense to ask for help even though I’m not good at it. It’s easy to feel sorry for yourself when you’re not feeling well, but a friend of mine has a younger brother with a brain tumor. She emailed me today about his operation. Few things snap you to attention and make you put things into a better perspective than the words ‘brain tumor.’ A silly cough seems almost like a gift now.
But back to what I can hear downstairs: Ian told me to stay in bed and he shut our door so none of the kids would bother me, but I can still hear everything. Ian’s made the kids french toast. Quinn woke up last, as usual (he’s a night owl like me, and not designed to rise early like the girls), so he probably won’t get any breakfast until later. Mona is asking to have hers cut up. She says “mines” instead of “mine,” because she hears it as “Yours and mines.” She’s starting to learn to cut things herself, but its faster in the morning when time is short to help her, so there is a lot of “Cut mines up!” at 7:00am. Aden hasn’t coughed once, but I heard the nebulizer running before breakfast. There’s a lot of dawdling when they get dressed.
I just heard Aden and Mona having an animated discussion about what socks to wear to make their outfits look like some kind of pattern. On other mornings if they dress alike they call themselves twins. Ian’s calling up the stairs, “Potty and shoes!” which is the last warning before leaving the house. Everyone has to use the bathroom, everyone has to find shoes. Mona is the most efficient with ‘potty and shoes,’ Aden is the least.
The backdoor just closed. I’m alone.
I’m just going to lie here a moment and enjoy the silence. I guarantee by the time this post hits my blog any chance that I’m sleeping in is over.
When we came back from our trip to the cottage both Aden and I got sick. Aden has a long history of complicated sinus infections that crop up now and then and are hard to shake. We have a nebulizer at home and when she starts getting a cough we put her on the nebulizer before bed and it buys us time for her to heal herself rather than run off to the doctor. Since we didn’t have the nebulizer at the cottage her condition got away from us this time and she got pretty sick. She didn’t seem deathly ill, because she was still literally dancing around and asking for play dates and being her bright-eyed sweet self, so we sent her to school with what we thought was just a cough. The school nurse took one listen and had me come pick her up, and the doctor declared her close to pneumonia. She told us if Aden were three and not seven she would have been hospitalized. Definitely one of those moments as a mom where I felt like I’d failed, but it’s so hard to tell when they need a doctor and when it’s nothing, and this time we guessed wrong. Now Aden’s on medicine that she complains about and has a strict routine with the nebulizer. The whining about the taste of the medicine is a good sign that she’s feeling like herself.
Mona, Quinn, and Ian all coughed briefly and bounced back. I was not bouncy. I saw a couple of people with appointments at the violin shop my first day back, and then Ian told me to go home and crawl in bed. I’ve spent most of my time here ever since, but today I’m feeling like myself again. I sweated under blankets and used up a whole box of kleenex and now I’m ready to go. All I really needed was rest and thanks to Ian I got it. I remember how impossible it was to be sick during his last deployment. At one point I had a bout of mastitis that I thought was the flu when Quinn was small and I felt like I was going to die. But it makes no difference to babies and small children if you feel that way, so I still dragged myself around the house, making breakfast and filling sippy cups and nursing Quinn and putting shoes on little feet. Now it’s an ugly blur but it’s amazing looking back to realize what you can do when you have no choice.
My heart goes out to single parents. Ian was raised alone by his mother and I’m in awe of the job she did. It’s beyond difficult. There are days even two parents aren’t enough. I remember when Aden was a baby and my brother Barrett came to visit, having that third adult in the house was magic. Ian and I could go out together to run an errand and Aden could still play or sleep at home. It’s hard enough when things are fine, but throw sickness into the mix and it’s ridiculous. I’ve really appreciated this chance to curl up in bed and get better. I know with Ian gone I’d be sick for weeks because rest would not be an option.
But when I do get sick again I know better than to whine. I will try to have enough sense to ask for help even though I’m not good at it. It’s easy to feel sorry for yourself when you’re not feeling well, but a friend of mine has a younger brother with a brain tumor. She emailed me today about his operation. Few things snap you to attention and make you put things into a better perspective than the words ‘brain tumor.’ A silly cough seems almost like a gift now.
But back to what I can hear downstairs: Ian told me to stay in bed and he shut our door so none of the kids would bother me, but I can still hear everything. Ian’s made the kids french toast. Quinn woke up last, as usual (he’s a night owl like me, and not designed to rise early like the girls), so he probably won’t get any breakfast until later. Mona is asking to have hers cut up. She says “mines” instead of “mine,” because she hears it as “Yours and mines.” She’s starting to learn to cut things herself, but its faster in the morning when time is short to help her, so there is a lot of “Cut mines up!” at 7:00am. Aden hasn’t coughed once, but I heard the nebulizer running before breakfast. There’s a lot of dawdling when they get dressed.
I just heard Aden and Mona having an animated discussion about what socks to wear to make their outfits look like some kind of pattern. On other mornings if they dress alike they call themselves twins. Ian’s calling up the stairs, “Potty and shoes!” which is the last warning before leaving the house. Everyone has to use the bathroom, everyone has to find shoes. Mona is the most efficient with ‘potty and shoes,’ Aden is the least.
The backdoor just closed. I’m alone.
I’m just going to lie here a moment and enjoy the silence. I guarantee by the time this post hits my blog any chance that I’m sleeping in is over.
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