rip away the tears; drink away the happy years

My brother passed away today. 

As much as we have always been bracing for this, it took us by surprise in the way a sheet of ice on a sunny day can melt just enough to waft down from a high skyscraper window and slice a pedestrian in half. 

My mother was alone with him in a hotel room in Nashville, where he had come to have a consult about a heart and lung transplant. It was a couple of tests and 31 vials of blood. Not a procedure. Not a surgery. Just as it had been for the last few months, no matter the position he simply could not get comfortable in the hotel room. She’d stand next to his bed and rub his back till he was snoring on her shoulder, then lay him down and go to her bed to try and get some rest. But then he’d suddenly be sitting up, again saying he was uncomfortable. She repeated the process, but this time the small voice inside of her that has never guided her wrong suggested she lie down next to him. She stroked his hair and laid her hand on his chest. And then it stopped moving all together. He struck out his limbs as if he’d had a shock and wouldn’t respond. She had to pull him to the floor and start CPR.

My mother managed to maintain his weak carotid pulse until the front desk attendant ran in to help with compressions and the ambulance arrived. The EMT patted her on the back and said “you did a very good job.” They let her ride in the ambulance, but in the front, helplessly watching their attempts at resuscitation from the little window. She called me on speaker at 12:15am and I heard it all; including the call of time: 12:34 am. It felt like I was in a movie about a made-up character, not a person without whom I feel I have no identity. 

She said it was the most agonizing thing she’d ever done in all her 72 years. It’s remarkable—many mothers give birth to their children, “but how many can say they had the honor of giving their child his last breath, too?” 

All I could do was look up into the air and thank all the good things of the world that after all of the agony and the suffering, the loneliness of being misunderstood and underestimated, my brother passed on from this world connected to the person who loved him the most. He didn’t have to face the journey alone. 

We are not okay.

#NaBloPoMo

“What Would You Say?” Dave Matthews Band 

a footnote in someone else's happiness

I shouldn’t have waited until Day 6 to say something to you, the two people I imagine might meander over here to read what I have to say from time to time. I owe you both an apology. 

That last post that was hanging around here since June 2020 for three-point-four years was "vagueBooking" at best. And the ensuing sustained silence may have insinuated that my brother was clawing his way through a serious medical swamp...from which he might not have emerged. 

He was. But he got out. 

I'm so sorry I didn't come back and tell you that he was ok. He is ok. 

That year—2020—was hell for a lot of people. And nobody who knew what was going on will ever be the same after having lived through it. Collective trauma and all that. 

For us, the stakes felt higher. Many people in my life took this approach: “Well we have to live our lives!” Or “sure but what’s the cost to our mental health?” It was especially surprising coming from the pastor who lived next door, but who knows what kind of stuff he was having to counsel people about.

Those are valid points! That said, all those folks had the luxury of assuming that Covid-19 would be a miserable experience, but they (and their loved ones) would likely come through it to the other side with their lives. Mental health is important, to be sure, but if your body doesn't make it, neither does your mind. 

We suspected that Covid would likely put my brother in the ground and didn’t want to take the chance, especially because my mom and I were his lifeline to the outside world. It felt as though every person I knew who was bitching about having to wear a mask didn’t actually give a shit about his life. Or what losing him might to do to mine, frankly. Eh, he has a pre-existing condition. What can you do? Those people are expendable, right? Certainly not worth being *uncomfortable* for more than a few months to try and protect. It's not like losing one of them could destroy a family or anything. And even if it would, that's somebody else's family and somebody else's problem. So all of us locked down harder than anyone else we knew.

Then we got smacked with something no one was ready for: That post I left you hanging on for three years? It had nothing to do with Covid. It was about a headache that turned out to be a brain bleed. 

The kid had to have a hole drilled into his skull so that the excess blood could be released and stop exerting pressure on his brain. Thank goodness it worked and he was ok.

We doubled down on our Covid-aversion measures. If we went anywhere at all it would be while re-breathing our own wet carbon dioxide, the mask digging into our cheeks and cutting into the backs of our ears. The alternative…the sheer idea of dropping the ball and letting something happen to him…just the possibility kept me up at night, even more so after this horrible virus sent my mother’s beloved sister--her person--to heaven far too early. And these kids? These amazing little imps were the only ones in their classes who stayed home then wore masks all day long for nearly THREE school years.   

Despite everything we did, in fall 2021 my brother stepped out to celebrate a close friend’s Very Important Day and BAM, it happened. He got Covid. And we had been right. It very nearly did kill him. 

I’m the one who had to call 911. To sit next to him for days in the overflowing ER when they couldn’t get a bed on a unit and bemoan the fact that the stubborn goat never signed a Power of Attorney so I couldn’t get him transferred to the hospital that actually knew five or three things about his complex medical history--and they were holding a bed for the guy. I had to relay all sorts of tenuous and terrifying information to my parents, going out of their minds at home; and to my husband, managing a fulltime job and two very small children (one of whom was still in diapers) at our house. Once my brother got a bed, my mother was at his side for the worst of it. And it was very bad. He was on the brink. The pandemic wasn’t anywhere near over for us. If I'm being very honest? It may never be over for us.

Somehow, he got through it. I’d be lying if I said he was ever going to be the same again (another myth about Covid—not everyone recovers 100%). I wish I could tell you some of the truly scary bits. But my brother doesn’t want me telling people his business. I’ve probably already said too much.

This is where I struggle: Yes. This happened to my brother, not me. His very supportive college roommates who live in different states, his revered colleagues and close high school buddies—who most decidedly are NOT receiving an average of 12 phone calls at any time of the day or night just to say whatcha doin' NOR are they dropping their spouses, children, work, obligations at a moment’s notice to sprint out the door because the call is coming from an emergency room—they are quick and loud to affirm: Yes! It’s HIS life. It’s HIS story! And if my brother doesn’t want anyone to know his business, then I need to respect that and keep my damn mouth shut.

I get it. I really do. He can't control anything about his health. So he keeps an iron fist around the information.

But…how am I supposed to continue being his emotional support animal on a need-to-know/need-to-tell basis? How am I supposed to jump off a conference call to answer the phone only to discover he’s bored or saw a funny meme or has a taste for Taco Bell or is craving Lemon Lime-flavored New York Seltzer brand soda we used to drink in the '90s that is no longer sold here or has a knot in his back or thinks he may be dying and doesn’t want to die or is tired of fighting and needs a pep talk…How am I supposed to manage that, while also trying to explain to everyone else in my life who has expectations of me that no, I'm not that lazy or scatterbrained, I'm just really tired and that pesky attention deficit disorder is probably to blame; no, melatonin does not work with my anxiety; I HAVE tried to meal plan--believe me--it fails when you can't follow through this evening, let alone know what might happen by the end of the week; I try to make sure the fridge is stocked and the undies are clean and the library books get returned and the kids' homework gets done and birthday party gifts are bought and the appointments are scheduled so at least my husband doesn't have to worry about those things, too...and I'm constantly failing...There's dishes in the sink and clutter piled on every flat surface in this house. How am I supposed to make anyone outside these walls understand when it's not my story to tell? This is not a week or a season. This is my actual life. And nobody gets it.

So I didn’t post at all. Because it isn't about me. It never has been.

What I can say is that I haven’t known any different since I was four years old. The guillotine that he could be snatched away has been over our heads since 1982, ready to drop with no notice. Every goodbye, every opportunity to give him something he wanted, every disagreement carried a silent “but what if this was the last…? Will you be able to live with yourself if THIS was the last…? It was hard for a kid to understand. I did grasp the severity of the situation, so I tried not to make a fuss. And especially now that I’m a parent myself, I don’t blame my folks for a single decision they made; they did and continue to do their very best, an amazing job considering what they have. Which is uncertainty and prayer.

I’m 45 years old. I have two exponentially rapidly growing small children who know that sometimes Mommy is gone for a long time without completely understanding why. This might go on for another decade and then I’ll have exponentially rapidly maturing teenagers who will leave this house and hopefully remember to call me on my birthday. Or it could all be over tomorrow. Then my exponentially rapidly growing kids might not look up from their devices long enough to see that I’m tangled up and lost in my guilt about what I could have done. They're accustomed to me going missing for stretches at a time. 

My friends understand that I sometimes can’t attend events because I need to be elsewhere. They agree, it isn't my story to tell. I really should be more respectful of my brother's privacy, for goodness' sakes, look at all he's going through. The ones close enough to see my actual life know that mentioning it to him will result in unfortunate repercussions for me. Those friends hear more of the story. And H. That man. He is the only one who understands what it feels like to try and, how does he put it? Sprint a marathon. And he's the one left holding the bag and keeping this chaotic ship afloat, solo, more times than is fair. Sure, he had an idea of what he was signing up for. By no means did that make it any easier.

Three years. I should have come back and told both of you dear readers that he was ok. Forgive me. Blame it on my ADD. For what it's worth, there were way too many details that needed to be redacted.

#NaBloPoMo

“Headfirst Slide Into Cooperstown on a Bad Bet” Fall Out Boy 

previouslies 2: all the posts fit to print

In 2011 I did this pretty comprehensive "previouslies" post. Here's where that leaves off, including some stuff I probably would have posted about, had I been doing this sort of thing regularly:

• In December 2011 I picked my brother up from O'Hare and flipped my car. That was possibly the first and definitely the last time I will ever leave the house without say goodbye to Jon after an argument.
• In February 2012 I started a new chapter in my career, fully putting the dungeon industry in the rearview (though I didn't know it at the time). My boss micromanaged and bullied, and I was her favorite punching bag. Giving so much while being made to feel incompetent is why I didn't post all that much. 
• In December 2012 Jon and I went on a gun-shooting /wine-tasting (not simultaneously) outing in Michigan with friends. Because I am me, the first weapon I ever fired was an AK-47. I pray I never hold another gun in my life. I didn't like how it felt to have that kind of power in my hands. It was a taste of the paranoid anxiety I would later experience post-partum. 
• In May 2013 I went into labor with my first child. After an immensely stressful several months at work, my water broke in my cubicle, 20 weeks early. The baby's lungs weren't developed enough for her to survive.
• In August 2013 we bought this house. Jon and our dear friend/realtor, Mala, did the legwork to find it. We were so excited to have a garage and a yard, and had big plans (like compost!). Less than a month after we closed, the pipes from the house to the street had to be dug up and replaced. I don't think we ever regained any homeowners' excitement and our yard looked like a construction site for the better part of four years (if you don't count when it was covered in snow). 
• Madelyn moved to Chicago.
• In December 2013 we lost baby #2 at about six weeks. She had a genetic defect (Trisomy 16).
• Jon started working at the same place as I did, but on a different team, in fall 2014. He is a natural, and people noticed.
• Two days before the one-year anniversary of Baby's due date, I delivered a healthy baby girl named Ro. She literally is the light of our lives. Grieving the first two are now complicated because technically we couldn't also have had Ro if they had survived. I had an emergency cerclage stitch put in to prevent labor and was on bed rest (and would have stood on my head for the entire pregnancy if I needed to). Delivering her separated my pelvis. I needed physical therapy and a walker to get around for the next four months, and the only thing I could do for her was nurse, then give her to someone else to be walked, burped, changed, bathed and the rest. Missing that bonding created a tender spot deep in my heart, kept sore by the guilt of feeling jealous and sad when all I should be is grateful. She kicks that very spot each time she pushes me out of the way to run to her father or says NOT YOU, MOMMY. I am happy that they have a great relationship, but I'd be lying if I said being left out doesn't sting.
• Jon's entire family came out for the holidays in 2014. I was thrilled to have both sides together for Ro's first Christmas. It was especially sweet to see her 2-year-old cousin Declan play with her. I wasn't exactly the best hostess, however, what with the walker, pain and trying to wrap my head around being somebody’s mother.
• I came back to work with pretty serious post-partum anxiety and my boss told me there could be a promotion. But they were "pretty sure they wanted to give it to" the woman who joined the team nine days after I gave birth (if you do the math, she was there for about three months and I had been there, slogging away, for three years). If I wanted it, I had to *prove* I deserved it. I was too stupid to see the mind game for what it was and redoubled my efforts. This was a very cruel thing to do to a lactating, sleep-deprived person who could barely walk, and I suffered as much as you can imagine. But I got the promotion. The other person was promoted a few months later.
• We took Ro on her first plane ride to see Jon's family in Southern California in September, 2015. She was 11 months old, met her great-grandmother, said hello to her sister, dipped her feet in the Pacific Ocean and caught her first major-league baseball game. We were there for our anniversary, too. It was a great time.
• My brother got an apartment in Chicago, within walking distance of Wrigley Field. He also *finally* started making some money back on his Cubs season tickets. I got to see them win the NLCS with him in 2015, which was amazing.
• Our "rainbow baby" turned one on Halloween. We celebrated, Oz-style, and everyone dressed up. Jon's mom flew out to see her granddaughter and hand-made her gorgeous Dorothy costume.
• My father's youngest sister, who lived in Mumbai, passed away from aggressive cervical cancer. I couldn't believe that I'd never see her again.
• In May 2016, our neighbors helped us break down our rotting backyard shed. There was a possum skull under it, and evidence that it was using the supports as a teething ring.
• My brother was set up on a date with a lovely Indian girl, who is friends with the wife of his BFF. Sounds good, right? Apparently she reminded him too much of me, which is a dealbreaker.
• HighCon was on tv, skulking around in the background on CNN during a Joe Biden speech. I always knew that guy would be famous. Now he and his dude have a house in the Hamptons that I very much hope we visit one day; it's beautifully appointed.
• My brother gave us a tremendous scare in August 2016 when he was retaining so much fluid in his chest and abdomen that his organs were impaired. He called me from the emergency room and had to be admitted. I believe five pounds of the stuff was drained out of him while he was in the hospital. He changed his diet and is controlling his sodium. But that was hella terrifying.
• My mom, Ro and I walked in the India Day Parade in my hometown on August 14, 2016. It's kind of a big deal because 40+ years ago when my folks settled in this place, there were only a handful brown people, and even fewer Indians. The existing community sure didn't make it easy for them. And now there's a parade!
• I went to my 20th high-school reunion in August. I had tried on about 25 dresses (including selections owned by a friend who goes to galas) but ended up with a $20 navy cotton dress from Target. And it was great. Had we been able to bottle the nervous energy in that country club banquet hall, we could have powered a city. I found out someone I never imagined had been reading this blog for quite some time (I had included the address in the wedding thank-you cards but didn't expect anyone to follow the link. If you're still reading, hi MSE!). I also got two apologies--only one of which I remember in context now (shame on me). Everyone should go to those things. You never know what can happen! Apparently the 10-year is when people hook up, and the 20-year is when people apologize...Perspective, amirite?
• My parents went to Singapore in September 2016 to visit my cousin and attend her daughter's First Communion. I was honored to be asked to make the veil. Jon and I realized that while they help us a lot with Ro, we can actually handle it ok without Nani and Papa. It's just nice to have them around.
• Ro started "preschool" at her in-home daycare. It still felt like a big step; there was a personalized backpack and all.
• Around this time, I sought a therapist's advice (a recommendation from two middle-school friends whom I haven't seen in decades--thank you, social media). She confirmed I exhibit classic signs of high-functioning ADD (and coped much better before kids, when I pulled all-nighters and only had to worry about myself). Many revelations followed. It is still a struggle. I didn't want to take medication because Jon and I were focused on trying for another baby.
• Our workplace had a huge project that had been in the works for years. In September 2016, my husband and I spent the weekend of our fifth anniversary working 10-hour shifts both Saturday and Sunday. We managed to get lucky and spent the money we'd saved for a celebratory weekend away on tickets to see Hamilton in October. It was worth every single cent to see it before the hype got nuts in Chicago. We were legitimately blown away and treasure having had the experience.
• I worked several overnights for the big project go live, including (my one day off in nine days) when I ACCIDENTALLY CAME IN TO WORK AND NO ONE STOPPED ME. This was a breaking point, because I thought I had messed up scheduling care for Ro and fought with my family for no reason. I started applying for other jobs.
• My college girls and I went to the "I Love the '90s" concert. Coolio, Color Me Badd, Tone Loc, SALT-N-PEPA and others. Salt-N-Pepa have still got it. The others made me feel kind of sad. The Allstate Arena parking lot was wall-to-wall minivans (we arrived in an Odyssey) and women were getting sloshed on tall cans of goodness-knows-what spiked fruit drinks. We almost got in a brawl with some broads in front of us who were so busy taking selfies they didn't realize they were spilling their drinks all over us. #goodtimes
• The Cubs won the World Series. I was at the game with my brother when they clinched the NLCS, and walked home through the drunken streets of the city in my David Ross jersey. It was *almost* as good as Grant Park in 2008. My brother was there for the actual win, and let me hear/see the pandemonium via phone (Shocker--I was working late that night while Jon and Ro were at home). I pray that more things in life can make my brother as happy as he was that day.
• I made Ro a pretty convincing Mary Poppins costume for her second birthday. She had a party at the jumping place and will not consider having her party anywhere else.
• I missed my first deadline. Ever. It wasn't for work, but still. A little of piece of me died that day. But you know what? The world kept turning.
• The country elected president number 45. I still feel some kind of way about that.
• My SIL a and our nephew, Declan, came to visit in November 2016. They had a blast playing together and exploring the children's museum. I wish we lived closer.
• PP and her dude bought a house on the South Side of Chicago that Quincy Jones used to live in! They didn't figure that out until more than two years later when they saw a documentary about his life and recognized their street.
• CC moved back to Chicago. I don't get to see her much because she runs content and social media for a publication that awards five-star ratings to hotels and restaurants around the world--and she gets to try those places! She got me a cool insulated water bottle from the Ritz Carlton in Lake Tahoe. It's a cool job, but damn, does that woman hustle. She recently got back from the Maldives.
• After multiple rounds of interviews, I got another job offer (commuting to downtown Chicago every day) and was about to accept. Then I peed on a stick. One thing my current job did let me do was work from home on bedrest. So I had to turn down the offer.
• Jon made Madelyn a "doggie deck" for her puppy, Frankie, who could tell I had a baby in my belly and would snuggle him. Sadly, her life was cut short because of a car accident when I was 22 weeks pregnant and she was about 22 weeks old. 
• I had a "preventative" cerclage put in at 16 weeks because by pregnancy NUMBER FOUR, they finally decided I have a bum cervix and maybe they should sew it up to keep the baby in.
• In April 2017 (Easter weekend), we revealed the baby's gender by having Ro open a series of plastic eggs in varying sizes until the smallest one burst open with blue m&ms and shared the video with the family. After all that we'd been through, we didn't want to make it into "a thing" until we had that healthy baby in our arms.
• I had an emotional Mother's Day.
• My college girls threw me a surprise baby shower, pretending it was pp's birthday party. I was overwhelmed with surprise and gratitude.
• PP took me to see Aladdin on Broadway (in Chicago). She had to escort me around the theater because of my delicate situation, but I'm so glad I went. It was so very good. SO good. I loved it. This was also the first time I used a ride-sharing service (that was weird).
• July 27, 2017 I took Ro to have ice cream with Ri and her two little girls. I dropped Ro off with my mom as she got off from work at the hospital and went for a "routine" appointment to have my cerclage stitch clipped because I was at 36 weeks. Apparently, during the 20 weeks the stitch had been holding my boy in tight, my skin had grown scar tissue all around it. This proved to be incredibly painful unimaginable ways--the MD couldn't get it out in the office, and called for backup. The backup couldn't get it out at the hospital's Labor & Delivery department, and called for backup. And the big boss (who started the practice and whom I followed from my old office because she's so good) busted out this huge, gray metal box with all sorts of Medieval-looking hatchety tools and STILL couldn't get it out. I felt all of that digging around, despite the IV meds. They took me to the OR and finally did it under an epidural. But they cut me up, so they had to cauterize the wound so it didn't get infected. At the end of all that, one of the OBs says "well, we'll know what to do for your next pregnancy." Uhhh...
• Madelyn got a new puppy and named her Olivia. She's more hyper than Frankie was, but is the same breed (Italian Greyhound).
• Again, I went beyond my due date. I was in labor for more than 24 hours and never dilated more than 2 cm, as cervical tissue that is scarred and tough doesn't really want to expand too much. TMI, but my doctor was trying to "break up" the scar tissue, manually, and I felt all of that, too. I just wanted a healthy baby; cervix be damned. But it just wasn't opening, so they rushed me in for a C-section. Apparently, he was practically knocking at the door. Kash was pulled out at 8:33 a.m. August 26, 2017. He is as limitless as the sky.
• I feel like exactly the kind of person I never wanted to be, having written only two posts here about him. I have spent just as much time marveling over his milestones as I did with Ro. But working full time with two small children? It's a wonder any of us are still alive, let alone documenting anything. Let me say that the entire time I was pregnant and rejected by Ro, I would hold my belly and say "please be mine. please be mine." And he does make me feel very appreciated.
• My MIL and Madelyn were watching Ro while I was trying to recover from the surgery and learn how to nurse this kid and make it from day to day in the hospital. Jon ended up having to stay home with Ro, who couldn't bear to be without him. My mom stayed with me in the hospital and would get up and go downstairs to work every day. I was doped up and they'd give me the baby in the middle of the night to feed--one time I caught myself nodding off. What if I had dropped him? Cue the exponential surge in anxiety. Those post-partum days were trying times, y'all.
• Guess what? Even though I didn't push to deliver Kash, the sheer widening of my pelvis to make room for him to grow messed with the ligament holding it together and it separated. Again! Hello, old friends physical therapy and the walker! 
• October 2017: We FINALLY got a handle on our Garbage yard. We got the front and back leveled and re-seeded by professionals.
• Jon turned 40 on Halloween 2017. I had presented him with a baby on his 36th birthday, and just grew him another, so I didn't think I needed to top that. He flew out to LA for a World Series Dodger game the day before his birthday (he saw them win) with one of his BFFs. Unfortunately they didn't win the whole thing, but he was back home in time to celebrate with his birthday twin.
• Ro wanted to dress as a witch for her birthday/Halloween. And she wanted another "jumping party." This time the theme was Sofia the First--the best princess of all, in the collective opinion of Ro, Kash and myself.
• There was a terrible fire in California, and the place where Baby's ashes were laid burned to the ground. I was much more sad than I expected. The cross remained standing, though.
• Ro and Kash met Santa at Kohl's. Ro wouldn't talk to Santa, let alone sit on anyone's lap, but after hemming and hawing, she got within 10 feet and practically whispered that she wanted an Elsa Barbie-like doll. Kash was his jolly self and bestowed smiles upon everyone in the store.
• We traveled to Ohio to spent Christmas with Jon's family at SIL m's house. It was really nice, and the kids did fairly well on the seven-hour drive back and forth. Ro had a blast with her cousin, Declan.
• I interviewed for a higher position at my employer. I did not get it. Jon moved to a different team in our company.
• We had a crazy amount of snow in February 2018. Jon threw Ro into a snowbank almost half as tall as he is. She sunk into the fluffy stuff and screamed with delight.
• My brother had been a bit...lax, shall we say, about checking in on his pacemaker. On Valentine's Day, 2018, he had to have heart surgery to replace it and have the new one attached to his heart. It was discovered that 36 years of stress from irregular bloodflow, 11 open-heart surgeries and living life, his liver has developed cardiac-induced cirrhosis. A week before this, a pipe in the unit above his apartment burst and destroyed his entire place. He moved in with us while his apartment was cobbled back together.
• In March I got pinkeye, then had a severe reaction to the medicine given to me by urgent care. My face swelled to Hitch  proportions, so much that I could hardly see, my eyes were smashed almost shut. I missed Angel07's '70s birthday bash, which sucked because I enjoy disco.  
• I interviewed for another position at my employer. I did not get it, either.
• Ro went to my friend's daughter's unicorn-themed birthday and rode a pony disguised as a unicorn. With all her heart, she believes she met a real unicorn. I'm hoping to let that slide for as long as possible.
• This was the year most of my friends and I turn 40. Several years ago, joking around, we talked about all going to Greece for our fortieth birthdays. The planners that they are, they actually made it happen. The gems that Jon and my mother are, they made it possible so I could go, leaving my 3.5y and 7m children for 14 days. I took off in May 2018. I am so eternally grateful for not having missed that opportunity to bond with my friends and take a severely needed mental break.
• I carried both a manual and electric breastpump through three countries and pumped/dumped everywhere from the beach to the club. I would be damned if my vacation was the end of my ability to produce food for my kid. I was worried Kash would reject me when I came home and steeled myself for the possibility, but he was very happy to see me. As was Ro. Thank goodness.
• Work stress escalated to new heights. There was a lot of drama that I thought would have been resolved while I was out on maternity leave, but in a shocking development, it had been left, festering, at my feet when I returned. I meticulously cleaned up that dumpster fire, then desperately tried to get away from my boss within the company. I finally realized that wow, I *am* competent, and even actually kind of good at this job. Imagine! My "work wife" and I managed to get onto another team, which came with new challenges.
• My brother invited us to Cubs Family Day at Wrigley Field on June 26, 2018. Kash was just learning to crawl, and he managed to army crawl on the actual field. Ro ran the bases but she was more excited about the inflatable jumping contraption. We have photos from the dugout that will last a lifetime.
• My dad *finally* relented and got rid of the hideous, overgrown evergreen trees in front of my childhood home (which had probably been there since 1978). Now the kids look forward to playing on the extra-wide stoop/sidewalk when the weather is warm. They can't play at our house because #mosquitoes.
• My cousin and her family came to visit from Singapore. We took the week to be tourists in our own area (Chicago is the best city in the world) and had so much fun at the Arboretum, Millennium Park, the Museum of Science and Industry, Shedd Aquarium, Brookfield Zoo, IKEA, the waterpark, all kinds of restaurants and playing around at home. I wish our families lived closer.
• Jon arranged for a few friends to do a cool escape room for my birthday as a surprise. Unfortunately we didn't beat it but it was fun. I would love to do another of those. He may have even ordered a bunch of random locks and stuff in the hopes of opening his own escape room...
• Little man turned one in August 2018: It was baseball-themed and I was a mess. I stayed up almost all night painting a comparable refrigerator box as Dodger Stadium with Kash's "stats" on the big screen (I had made a similar painting of the Emerald City for Ro's first birthday). We rented a park pavilion and a lot of the guests arrived before we did, with the food. But I think people still had fun. There were water balloons and so much Cubs-cake frosting all over the baby.
• Ro took gymnastics at the park district. She would not participate. I had to do the moves with her on the floor (sometimes moving her arms and legs for her), and she did not warm up until the last week of the second session, when she was all about it. But she could do all of the tumbling perfectly at home. Apparently those age ranges reference social readiness as well as physical capabilities.
• My old team banded together and ousted my old boss to another area where she would not have any direct reports, kind of like a coup. The person who had filled in for me while I was on maternity leave with Ro was promoted to her position. I can't help but wonder if the boss realized that she backed the horse that would kick her.
• My brother rented out his boss's brand-new bar for my 40th birthday. I curated a '90s hip-hop playlist that was appreciated by a surprising number of people. The paint was barely dry in the bar, but we closed that sucker down. And apparently the bartender was very generous and my friends--many of whom got babysitters for the evening--were not accustomed to drinking that much. We moved to a nearby hotel bar and closed THAT one out as well. I still hear about some of the subsequent hangovers.
• Ro wanted to be Sofia the First for her birthday. I ordered a beautiful costume as soon as it became clear I wasn't going to be able to make anything that year, not even four hours' sleep in a row. Her jumping party theme was Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
• Work really went off the rails. Without belaboring the details, senior leadership hired a consulting firm to basically blow up everything I had designed and implemented for the previous six years...except it wasn't actually broken but working quite efficiently, as we proved time and again. And yet, when we pointed out the flaws in their plans, one of those jerks had the audacity to say "It doesn't matter that you don't want to do this, your CEO signed off on it." Clearly he didn't care about improving the business; they were going to take their money and bounce. Their proposal was for two people (myself and work wife) to essentially move the equivalent of the leaning tower of Pisa from one end of the yard to the other, brick by brick. But it would still be leaning and not improved much at all. We took our concerns up the chain and were told "it's dumb, but we have to do it" and that contracts had been signed. The consultants estimated it could all be completed by two dedicated people within three days. It took these two people more than 500 hours to do it over a three-week period, and I was still fixing it for months afterward . The deadline? October 31. I pushed and pushed and got it extended all the way to November 1. I worked more than 100 hours those weeks. I worked overnight October 30, because I didn't want to miss my baby girl's and husband's birthday. The consultants sat in my cubicle and wouldn't leave because #deadline. I got to the bakery at 7:02pm, begging them to unlock the doors so I could pick up birthday cakes. I missed trick-or-treating. I missed seeing them dressed up. I pretty much missed her entire fourth birthday. The adults didn't even have dinner because they were all waiting for me and it was simply too late. It was too late for too many things. I don't know that Jon will ever forgive me. But by that point I was so brain-dead, I didn't have the mental capacity to realize I should have just gotten up and left. That the expectations were beyond ridiculous. I got my resume out instead.
• Ro started ballet and tap class. She participated! A little. She says she "loves ballet," but I think the real thrill is seeing her dad or my mom or me through the window, watching her.
• Kash became obsessed with any kind of sports. But mostly BASEBALL! And when someone says "Go Cubs!" he loves to yell "NO! I SAID GO DODGERS!" Jon is over the moon. Ro roots for the Cubs. Sports makes people do strange things.
• February 4, 2019. I interviewed outside the company and didn't hear back. I thought they ghosted me. I accepted that I was staying and that staying was probably for the best.
• My brother bought a house eight minutes away from us in May 2019. It is the same raised-ranch layout as our house, short one bathroom and one bedroom. It has a deck AND a patio. And a garden. It's adorable and so much space for him. We are planning on crashing there while we sell our house. I have been taking one ball from the ball pit he gifted my children and leaving it hidden somewhere in his house, every time we come over. Eventually, he will have all of them, squirreled away under his bed, in his pantry, in the liquor cabinet...
• Jon is dedicated to making our home the "smartest" around. I swear, every piece of electronic gear is synced with a smarthome device, or motion detector, or app or camera. It's very helpful with the children, but a hacker could look in on us anytime in nearly any room to see that we are just trying to get through the day like everybody else. And we don't seem to get tired of pizza.
• May 2019. The outside employer called to see if I still wanted the job. I told my current boss what the offer was and she took a day or so before saying they wouldn't counter offer. Message received. I gave my two weeks' notice and shocked everyone who assumed I'd be a lifer. CC and I promised ourselves not to do that back at our first post-grad job in 2004.
• We hired a master gardener (my brother's BFF's wife's mom) to re-landscape our front yard. What a difference! She added hydrangeas, which I carried in my wedding bouquet. Of course, now that we are looking to move, I'm starting to warm up to this house.
• Ro adamantly doesn't want to play any sport but soccer, BECAUSE SOCCER IS HER FAVORITE. Jon turned on the Women's World Cup this summer and watched the U.S. take the title. Ro asked, "what is that on tv? Can I watch Moana instead?"
• Three months before what would have made16 years (on and off) at the organization, I took the leap to the new job. I'm so scared and a bit heartbroken. But not nearly as sad as when almost two weeks at the new gig went by without my talking to another human being out loud (just on instant messenger/email) outside of saying hello to the receptionist at the front door--then found out the old job already replaced me. I pray that I haven't made a mistake.

And here I am: Perched at the edge of a giant bed in a Grandstay Hotel in Wisconsin. Working on a certification for this new job. I'm alone and very lonely. I forced myself to stop in the tiny downtown near my hotel is and had ice cream for dinner sitting on a wrought-iron chair/table and peoplewatching, imagining a simpler time. Then I FaceTimed my family and felt sadder. Kash was reciting I Love You, Through and Through and I Am a Bunny to me because we've read them together so many times. Ro told me about all the fun they had with the sprinklers and the waterballoons at Nani's house and ran off to whatever she was playing. I wished Jon Godspeed and hung up.

I cobbled together what must've happened during the last few years by scrolling through photos on my phone. Now, more than ever, I can feel years--not just hours--whooshing past while I'm standing still, trying to process it all. I had a practical stranger re-create a photo of me taken in 2012 at this same training facility. Side by side, it is plain just how much I've gained in seven years. Weight. Wrinkles. Scars. Gray hair. Sorrows. Joy. Memories. Knowledge. Experience. Wisdom?

Is this what it's like to get old?


For old time's sake, check out this ancient post about parking, back when I didn't use capital letters.

this really happened

When I got pregnant, I thought, "Is this really happening?"

When I was on bedrest, I thought, "Is this really happening?"

When I made it past, 12, 20, 24, 28, 32, 35, 37 and 40 weeks of gestation, I thought, "Is this really happening?"

When the doctor said to me, "I'm stripping your membranes, if you don't go into labor on your own, come in tomorrow and we'll induce you," I thought, "Is this really happening?"

When Jon was driving me to the hospital on Halloween (his birthday), I thought, "Is this really happening?"

When the contractions really started and I found myself yelling, "MOMMY! MOMMY!" in the delivery room, I thought, "Is this really happening?"

When they (sorry, TMI) put up a mirror so I could see what was going on, and I saw so much hair that did not belong to me, I thought, "Thank God she's not bald. But seriously, is this really happening?"

When they put her on my chest, and she didn't really even have any of the goo you see on TV newborns, and I saw her little face and felt her soft, soft skin, I looked among what seemed like 40 extra people rushing around in my room for my husband and my mother. I said, out loud to no one in particular as I looked down at our baby girl, "Is this REAL?"

Yep.

Meet Ro. As I had been saying all along, she stayed cooking for 40 weeks (and one day). Her father calculated it out, and she was born something like 36 years and 20 minutes after he was. 

I had been utterly deluded when making the long list of things I hoped to accomplish while on maternity leave--which included putting together my wedding album, knitting 14 sweaters and regularly posting on this blog. I apologize for leaving the two of you who still read it hanging all this time. I missed you!

 

For three months, all I did was cuddle this person. And occasionally eat and shower. But that's it.

Unfortunately, it's already been 12 weeks and I have to go back to work. Ro starts daycare in less than eight hours, which means I should be in bed so I can get everything ready for our big day (and try not to soak up the entire box of Kleenex I got for the occasion before we head out the door). Of course, that means I am here posting for the first time in three months instead of sleeping.

While it's unbelievable that some things actually really happen, it's just as unbelievable that other things never seem to change.

last dance

So this kid has a dance party starting every evening at about 4 p.m.  Sometimes she settles down at about 8, and sometimes she doesn't stop until after midnight. And now that she's a lot bigger, her John Travolta moves are perceptible to people other than just me--when she sticks her leg straight out, my belly looks a little like one of those old-school cartoons where the character gets hit over the head and the bump protrudes like a unicorn horn. Or my entire belly contorts into odd shapes. No joke.

Today is no different. In fact, she just sort of rolled over under my skin. I will never get used to that feeling, but I would never want to. I am going to miss that so much later when she's on the outside and it'll take more than a few soothing words and a reassuring rub to get her to settle down.

Today is also her official due date. And I'm still pregnant.

Here we are, the people whom the doctors thought would be lucky to be on this side of 24, 28, 30, 32, 37 weeks; WE ARE AT FULL TERM. That's 280 days. And something I never expected.  Despite the fact that no matter what anyone said, I always replied, "We're going all the way to 40! Plus one day, so she can come out on Halloween, her father's birthday." I was banking on it, but didn't *really* think it could happen. I never did get him a present, but now I don't have to. I could never top this.

I went to the doctor today and she said there's no point in letting Baby go past her due date. I'm 4 cm dilated, 100% effaced. In the office, the doctor stripped my membranes (basically detached the bag of waters from the uterus), which can sometimes get the process going. And, in case she doesn't feel like coming out on her own, the doctor scheduled us to show up tomorrow--Halloween, her father's birthday--at 7:15 a.m. to be induced.

So it's going to happen. Like, for real. I am still sort of in shock that by this time tomorrow, I'm going to be somebody's MOTHER. Like in charge of her well being. Like having to make decisions for her. Holy crap.

Wish me luck!

Bed rest, I will not be missing you.

I have a tricky hip and his name is Dennis

I had a doctor's appointment Wednesday. I had been having increasingly painful contractions for the last two weeks (about 30 minutes apart and strong enough to wake me all night). I had also been extremely uncomfortable for the previous few days. That morning I woke up to some, um, different stuff coming out of me that led me to believe that there might be some straining on the cervical cerclage stitch that could be pulling on the cervix, so I figured it was going to be an eventful day.

I went in (last progesterone shot, hooray!) and the doctor checked me—WOW that time hurt. She was like yeah, I'm taking your stitch out today so it doesn't tear your cervix (that had been scheduled for next week). She sent me straight to the hospital.

Contractions were still coming, but my physician had to attend to an emergency twin c-section (those kids are ok, thank goodness), so my mom and I were hanging tight and waiting for Jon to show up.

At about 7:15 p.m., my doctor came in, scootched up to my bed and snipped the stitch. It was pretty quick, but not pleasant. The stitch was basically wrapped around the cervix and cinched tight like a Hefty trash bag. It snapped SO loudly, I jumped at the noise. But I immediately felt a loosening down there.

They kept me for observation and I continued to have contractions till 10:30 p.m. when they sent me home. My doctor said no more work; I'm on "strict" bedrest now. She said if I needed to we could just turn around and come back to the hospital.

Since the stitch has been out, my back pain has lessened, I walk more like a normal pregnant person, instead of a 90-year-old without her walker. My inept, tricky right hip (whom I call Dennis) that never seems to want to cooperate because of nerve pain has started to play a little nicer. I SLEPT for the first time in several weeks (only got up twice to pee) and didn't have painful contractions! The last two days I have lay in bed/couch all day and had the tightening of contractions, but they are nothing compared with the ones I had the last few weeks with the stitch intact.

It's really weird not to work. Especially because my work team is down a couple people already and I'm leaving them a few weeks earlier than anticipated. But I have to say, the not having to work has been oddly relaxing. I watched six hours of Rehab Addict on Thursday--I've decided this house needs to be gutted and restored to how it was originally in 1968. I am knitting a few little items for the baby, bingewatching Scandal, trying to read more and trying to ignore my compulsion to want to clean everything.

Last night I had a mini freakout because the baby wasn't moving around as much as she normally does. Usually when I tracking her movements (doctor said 10 an hour is good), I get 10 in the first three minutes. But last night it took her almost the full hour to get to 10. And they weren't the regular jabs of appendages stretching out or shifting positions but instead lighter blip-like movements. Even after I had a little lemon sorbet. I got upset. My mind went to the edge of the scary place. I think it even rattled my even-keel husband. This morning she is moving around more like normal. The sweet parathas probably helped, too.

I need to keep more busy.

Brother. It is a little ironic that the one celebration that you could/wanted to spend with us on your actual birthday in a very, very long time didn't end up happening because I got scared and went to the hospital. I feel bad that you were hanging around near the restaurant for hours was while I was hooked up to monitors trying to figure out if those contractions were real and if I was leaking amniotic fluid (not really and no, everything turned out to be fine; it just took a really long time to confirm).

As much as you would never admit it, I know it's going to be different when this baby comes. Your wants and needs have been first priority for so much of the past three decades--how could they not? I don't resent you for it; I worry about you as much as mom and dad do. I know you have been wiggling out from under the parental blanket of concern for a long time, and you've done an exceptional job proving that you are your own man who can handle your own business. We don't need to worry, but it's not something we can turn off.

It has been tremendously hard for me the past few months to be the person that isn't allowed to help, can't even get up from a chair without extreme difficulty and is basically at the mercy of everyone else. The biggest lesson I've learned during the last few years is that apparently I can't control everything, which was clear to you since you were just a baby. It's probably just as hard for you to now be the one worrying, waiting for a call that everything is ok...or not. We've both done a lot of growing up in the last few years.

Happy Birthday.

growing, changing

My brother moved out of suburbia to the city a few weeks ago. I think after having lived on his own for years, he'd had enough of his (and my former) roommates asking if he'd eaten, whether he'd be home for dinner, where he was going and if he needed his work pants ironed. Sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me, but to each his own, I guess. Even though I didn't see him too often when he lived in the next town, I now miss him as if he had up and moved to New Mexico. Especially because I am on limited activity (they won't let me drive and going up/downstairs is for when I get to leave--only for work), I feel kind of trapped in the house. 

This week, Madelyn loaded up all her stuff into a van and moved to the city. The door to her room is usually closed, but now it stands open. The room is bright and so, so empty. It makes me a little sad. But I walked in there after she had left and immediately got the feeling that yes, this should be the baby's room, something I hadn't really let myself think about too much.

Last week I had a little freakout with some odd, shooting pains and went into the hospital. Turned out I was having contractions, but they were so mild they barely registered. While I was feeling guilty about scaring everyone, the peace of mind knowing that all is ok was totally worth it. I have started feeling little taps from my belly; a crazy, amazing feeling. It blows my mind that I'm walking around with a separate person inside of me who will have its own dreams, opinions and ideas. 

The day all of Madelyn's stuff was boxed up in the living room and being loaded, Jon and I went to see the doctor for our baby's 20-week checkup. We had to wait a long time to be seen, and I kept telling Jon that they only attend to you right away if something is really wrong. My cervix looks to be healing nicely and staying together at a decent length. The baby is measuring to be right on schedule to come out around October 30 if she stays in there that long. That's right, we are growing a little baby girl.

People have babies all the time; it's happened billions of times, actually. But I've never gotten this far before, and everything seems so insane and amazing as if it's happening for the first time, just to me. I'll bet everyone feels this way. I don't know what it is, but finding out the gender of the first baby made things hurt all over again, and finding out the gender of this baby makes the whole thing seem different, somehow, and very very real. It's harder not to think about the name, or the nursery or what kinds of stuff I can manage to make for the kid before she emerges. I'm trying to rein myself in, but it's tough.

I just hope everything goes ok. Thank you all for your good wishes and love.  

hotdog bun

So they've been monitoring me very closely. This time. Finally.

And thank God for that, because last Thursday I went in for my every-other-week (why does "bimonthly" have two meanings?) ultrasound to check cervical length. Basically, a long and closed cervix points up toward your baby. It keeps your kid and the bag your kid is in on the inside of you. If it starts to shorten or open up, the bag can get pushed out and even pop. Last year they never did figure out what happened; my cervix looked closed after that baby's amniotic sac burst. And then the second child came and went. Plus, I'm of "advanced maternal age" now. Thus, the monitoring.

The last few appointments have gone great. I almost felt silly hopping on the table for two minutes, the technologist taking measurements and then some quick peeks at the baby, then the doctor saying everything looked great. I was assuming the same routine for this last check, but as soon as my insides showed up on the monitor, I knew something was wrong.

Normally, my cervix kind of looks like a closed hotdog bun with no hotdog. But this time, it seemed as though some curious little person wanted to see what was inside the hotdog bun and started prying it apart. And that curious little person was now vigorously sticking its little feet and legs into that opening, using it as a springboard to launch itself around.

The tech was tightlipped when I asked if that was normal (knowing it isn't) and she said I could discuss it with the doctor in a few minutes.

The doctor said that my cervix hotdog bun was "funneling," and that kids--she called mine "the little dickens," which I love--have a tendency to stick their arms and legs where they don't belong. And oh, if I hadn't eaten a huge, dairy-laden lunch, do I think I can go straight to the Operating Room?

So Jon and I went upstairs to the OR, they gave me a spinal sedation, they flipped me nearly upside down and my physician did a surgery to put a stitch in the cervix, in the part that was still closed so that it will stay that way. Hopefully. The whole thing took less than an hour.

The entire time, the anesthesiologist and I were having a very detailed discussion about great dining in the city of Chicago (He wants but hasn't been able to get into Schwa, but enjoys the housemade sausage at Table, Donkey and Stick. I sang the praises of The Bristol). The nurses call him Dr. Justin Timberlake, and I can see the resemblance. I kept looking at my doctor squintily (no glasses), and for all the OR gear, all I could see were her eyes behind a shield. She has some of the most beautiful eyelashes I have ever seen, and doesn't look to be using mascara at all. Then it was over. Doctor said she could see the baby bouncing around in there. I wasn't going to be able to feel anything from the waist down for a while, so they kept me overnight for observation. I didn't sleep, and for all my whimpering and the aggressive air conditioner, neither did Jon.

The last week has been pretty much bed and couch rest; they wouldn't let me even go downstairs. The pain is pretty much gone now, but they did have me on some anti-contraction meds the first few days--apparently when they monkey with your business down there, your body may go into labor. That which they were trying to prevent (cervix opening, baby-bag bursting, contractions, labor, delivery) is possibly what happened with the first baby.

Today I went in for a checkup and everything looks good, if you think a hotdog bun that is flopping open on one side and pinched shut on the other looks good. We saw a little booty wiggling around in there, and the doctor said I don't have to be on bed rest, but I can't really do anything, either.

Jon keeps telling me, and I keep telling my parents, this procedure is a GOOD THING. They did this to keep bad things from happening. But I will be honest, I am scared as hell. I don't want to think about a nursery color theme, I don't want to pick out a crib, I don't really want to think of names--at least until we make it to 24 weeks, when I know he or she has a shot to survive outside of me. I really don't want to think about the alternative.

it doesn't happen on tv, so that means it doesn't happen, right?

Basically I'm pregnant. They didn't find a heartbeat at the first ultrasound last week and the baby measured six weeks when I was supposed to be further along. We went in today (seven days later), no heartbeat identified and measurement is still six weeks, so apparently this classifies as a "missed miscarriage" because my body has not yet recognized that the baby stopped progressing and continues to make me vomit and feel sore and gross. I am scheduled for a D&C on Friday.

This really sucks. But it's nowhere near as bad as what happened in May, when I had to naturally deliver a perfectly healthy baby knowing she wasn't developed enough to be saved.

What really ticks me off is that there is a 15-25% chance that ANY pregnancy will result in miscarriage. That seems like an awfully high percentage for something we hear so little about. I get that people need privacy, and I respect that. But the less we talk about this stuff and how it hurts and how it isn't the fault of the mother, the father or the heavenly ghost, the worse it is for those who have to go through it thinking no one else understands how they feel. And it's more people than you think.

So hug a friend today. There is a good chance that they or someone they are close to have lost a pregnancy. Maybe even more than one.

reversal

I have been working in a hospital on and off for more than a third of my life. I'm used to the noises and the fluorescent lighting and the terse whispering and the weary-looking eyes of nearly everyone there. And unfortunately I have spent way too many hours in hospital waiting rooms. But when I found myself sitting on a cart in Emergency Department Pod A trying to wrap my mind around the fact that my water broke 23 weeks too early, I went sort of numb--and all I could think about was my brother.

Is this what it felt like for him all those endless mornings at 4 a.m. when he was getting prepped for surgery? When everyone was bending over backwards to make him smile or be comfortable and nothing really worked but he pretended that it did work just to make them feel like they were helping? Did it hurt him this much every time a nurse went digging around for an IV? Did his muscles cramp up like this? Was it just as annoying to have to drag a beeping pole to the bathroom while holding the back of a gown closed? How did he lie like this for WEEKS at a time? I was only there for three days. Oh my God it must have been so much worse for him. HOW did he endure this? How did he not complain more? How did he get through this over and over, so many times? I just wanted to see his face.

But I couldn't call him. He was in St. Louis, probably sitting at his desk toggling between work and ESPN. He was looking forward to holding his niece or nephew someday. Making plans to indoctrinate the child to root for Chicago teams despite the kid having 50% Los Angeles DNA. I kept picturing his expression on the FaceTime when I told him I was pregnant (he was the first person I wanted to tell)--usually so stingy with his smiles, he was absolutely beaming. It had been a tough time and it was nice to give him something to be happy about. A few days later, I got a text picture of him holding a friend's newborn and he looked so happy. I could just picture what a tremendous uncle he will be. For years I have said my children will call him the Hindi name for Mother's Brother: "Mama," and he has threatened all kinds of bodily harm if I made good on that promise. But as soon as he heard there was going to be a Baby, I was certain he would love my kid more than anything in the world--even if she called him "dookieface." This news was absolutely going to break his heart. If I could delay that in any way, I was going to.

A few hours into my stay, Jon and I were trying to decide how to tell the doctors we weren't going to listen to their stern recommendations. I decided it was time to call my brother. I gathered my composure and picked up my phone.

"Shut up, I'm already on the road."

I don't allow myself to think about what was going through my husband's mind on the 40-min drive to the Emergency Room, and I don't want to know what that five-hour drive was like for my brother. Jon has since said that anytime he sees someone frantically overtaking people on the road, he imagines them worried and rushing to a loved one, so he just gets out of the way.

Jon never left my side for more than a few minutes throughout the entire ordeal. My mom and dad were on the other side of my hospital bed. And then my brother burst into the room. Things did not magically get better. We were still helpless and losing our child. But when I looked around and saw that my team was complete, I finally let out a breath.

Many times I have tried to explain how I feel about my brother. Maybe everyone thinks of their siblings this way, I don't know, but making sure he's ok has simply always been a life requirement. I remember tiptoeing into his room at 3 a.m. to see that he was still breathing when I was 10. He came to visit me in Champaign after he got his drivers license, and on the way home his car broke down on an unlit stretch of Interstate 57 at Sauk Trail; the sheriff lit some flares and just left him there. My then-boyfriend couldn't understand why I was pacing around in tears thinking about my brother, scared and alone, waiting for hours after the flares went out for my parents to get there. And I cried just as much as our mother did at his college graduation.

I feel like an overbearing just-as-bad-as-mom who lectures and worries and causes the biggest eyerolls imaginable. Most of the time, I probably am. However, my brother dropped everything, threw together a bag, jumped into his car and drove 282 miles just to be in the same room as me and all he said was, "How could I NOT be here? You are my sister."

People say that you don't know what it's truly like to care about another person's wellbeing until you have a child. Having had one--albeit very briefly--I agree. But I think I already had a pretty good idea.

Happy Birthday, brother.

we held our perfect child, long enough to say goodbye

The cruelest detail was that I didn't actually hear that strong, healthy heartbeat until after they told us there was nothing they could do to save our baby.

***

Last Saturday, I had severe low-back pain. I thought I might have hurt myself, even though I hadn't been lifting or straining. Sunday night I felt weird, crampy twinges, some so severe I had to kneel down on the floor. I've never been pregnant before, and have long been regarded as a weakling when it comes to pain, so I figured it was gas and told myself not to overdramatize. It wasn't at regular intervals, but it kept me awake. Granted, I hadn't been able to sleep until the sun came up for the previous few weeks anyway. Plus, I'd had an (informal, I have technologist friends) ultrasound just three days before that looked fantastic. While the techs didn't feel confident about the sex of the baby just yet, they assured me our child was healthy--and showed me four strong beating chambers on the screen. In fact, I even saw Baby drinking amniotic fluid and moving around like a champ.

***

Monday morning I went to the office at 7. Any other day I would have been inhaling Cheerios at that hour. My mom recommended I call the doctor, but I got the answering service. I planned to call right when they opened at 8 a.m. Unfortunately, I had staggering--apparently they were contractions--pain and my water broke at 7:50. Just like the movies; a weird pop and a torrent of warm fluid. I can't get that horrible sensation out of my memory. And even though I'm pretty angry at God right now, I am so thankful this didn't happen while I was alone, especially while driving.

A coworker friend drove me to the Emergency Department and I called Jon to say he needed to leave work immediately and be with me in the ER. He didn't buy my fake-cool voice. I can only imagine the terrors going through his mind during that 40-minute drive.

The doctor did a check and said the outlook was extremely grim. Essentially, at 17 weeks our baby's lungs weren't developed enough to sustain him/her outside the womb. And on the inside, the child needed plenty of amniotic fluid to breathe, protect him/her as well as to continue lung development. Sadly, there was probably only a teaspoon or two of amniotic fluid left. And they didn't think it would last. If our baby would have been at least 24 weeks, he/she would have had a much better chance of making it on the outside.

***

For whatever reason, at the 14-week doctor's-office ultrasound, I couldn't distinctly hear the heartbeat. Jon and the doctor did, as well as my mom and dad with my brother's special stethoscope, but I just never felt confident I'd heard it and that made me sad. However, when they took me from the ER to Labor and Delivery and checked for fetal heart tones, it couldn't have been clearer: 165-170 bpm. A healthy rate for a 17-week baby in utero. That was devastating.

***

All the medical professionals were strongly encouraging Jon and I to consent to induce labor and deliver the baby. They worried I'd get an infection that could threaten my life or ability to have more children. While they never say "zero" or "one hundred percent," Baby's chances to make it were as close to zero as they could estimate. Hearing that right after such a strong heartbeat was excruciating. I was lost, but Jon was unwavering; we were absolutely not going to give up on a kid that wasn't giving up on us. They respected our decision but said they'd move ahead if I showed any signs of infection.

This continued for two days. They kept checking the heartbeat, which continued strong and thus became increasingly unbearable to hear. The baby apparently found a tiny pocket of fluid on my right side and was hanging in there, fighting it out. I was trying my best not to move and lose another drop of fluid for my kid. Everyone that came in the room already had that horrible, pitying look in their eyes.

***

On Tuesday evening, contractions started again and we stopped checking for heart tones. I am so thankful the universe made that decision for us, because Jon and I could not have lived with ourselves if it happened any other way. Regardless, we weren't going to get the baby, and if the placenta didn't come along when I delivered, I'd have to have surgery to remove it. So I consented for an epidural.

At 1:50 a.m. Wednesday May 22, our beautiful baby was born. From the look of it, our child was fighting to breathe until the very second it came into the world. Everything was perfect, from each little finger and toe to the cute little nose--which Jon swears looks just like mine. The mouth is definitely Muller. He/she was curled up and looked peacefully asleep.

My mom, dad, brother and Madelyn were all there, and most of them held our baby. It was tough watching them looking down at the little one. At 7 inches and 4.25 ounces, he or she was measuring tall, which I have to say is a little surprising. Baby was about the size of the doctor's hand.

But the absolute worst was watching Jon. He'd developed a fever, was shaking with the chills and was pacing around like a maniac until the baby came. I've wanted to be a mother since my high school babysitting days, but Jon was born to be a father. My already broken heart was completely crushed when I heard that he was cradling our baby and singing to him or her.

 The smudge on the left is a handprint.

No one knows why or how this happened. Not yet, anyway.

Apparently this is called Pre-term Premature Rupture of Membranes (PPROM) and it occurs in 2 percent of all pregnancies. If we were further along, perhaps something could have been done to save our child. Perhaps not. The maternal fetal medicine doctor says the membrane sac is extremely strong--experiments have been done where they drop cannonballs on it and they just bounce off. But no one knows why some can weaken and break. In my case, it wasn't a small hole, it was a blowout--impossible to put back together, even if the science had been there.

We have been researching this and there is all sorts of speculation, such as Baby had some kind of virus or infection that didn't show by making me sick, or a signal from either one of our brains telling my body he or she was ready to come out, inducing labor. The doctors were very clear that even though they will be testing the baby (including chromosome, which will finally tell us the sex), there's a very good chance we will never know how it happened.

***

Baby was cremated at a local funeral home and we will be taking him or her to two special resting places (one here and one in California) as soon as we decide where those should be. My parents handled all of that business. I've always been grateful for the love we have from family and friends, but at times like these, that support is pretty much what is helping Jon and I get to the next day. We haven't wanted to see anyone, but knowing people care give us strength.

***

It's so hard to describe what we're feeling (here's a link to Jon's post about this). The second I felt that gush of fluid, something in my mind snapped and sort of turned off. I am terrified of what will happen when it turns on again. Jon says that there was nothing we could have done better or differently these last four months. When I show signs of cracking, he is adamant: Yes, I was working a lot, but he's not wrong when he says my coming home and leaving my coworkers there to continue would have caused me far more stress than just putting in the 70+ hours a week. I'm not sure other people in our lives are as convinced as my husband, including myself. But I will have to learn to live with that. I hope I am able.

I am so grateful that our little one no longer has to suffer. There are few things worse than holding your child and knowing he or she will never take another breath. I wouldn't wish that upon anyone.

the secrets we must keep

About a month ago, I posted a cryptic note on twitter. It's just the kind of post I hate, because a) what do they mean!?! and b) they're plain annoying. So here, let me repeat it:

"I hate to have to be the one to keep scary secrets. And later suffer for having kept them."

In the span of an extended weekend, my brother called me up with work troubles, relationship issues and--having gone to the cardiologist because he wasn't feeling well--health concerns. The kid has been working from home, lives in a town where everyone he knows he knows through his girlfriend, and was now under directive from his physician not to travel. That week, he was essentially alone. The worst part was that he wasn't even going to tell us.

He prefaced the conversation with the caveat that whatever he was going to tell me must not, under any circumstances, be repeated to our parents. And if I gave the slightest hint of freaking out, he was going to hang up and not tell me another thing. Apparently, his oxygen levels are low, his white blood count is low. He's relying on his pacemaker way more than the original 13%. That cut he's had on his ankle from last spring? Still hasn't healed, even with the help of a wound-care specialist. And then he said his cardiologist mentioned the possibility that if things don't get better, he may need to consider two words that have never been up for discussion in the last 30 years, two words that made my blood run cold: heart transplant. I'm not sure I even processed the rest of the conversation after that.

Apparently, this boy had transferred his records, found this doctor in St. Louis, went for preliminary tests and scheduled himself for a cardiac catheterization. He's had them before--they run a tiny camera in through the femoral artery and check out how the blood flow is going. He wouldn't tell me when or where this was going to happen and forbade me from telling my mother. I spent the next week of nights crying on Jon and days pretending all was cool--trying very hard to act nonchalant over the telephone. Jon was right, I had to respect his wishes, at the very least if I wanted information.

I see my parents often. And keeping this from them made me feel like a fraud. Listening to my father complain about the government or the fact that the old car didn't pass emissions made me want to stand up and scream at the top of my lungs about how he is wasting his energy on stupid shit that is NOTHING compared to things he really ought to be worrying about. And my sweet mother saying things like, "oh your brother hasn't called. he's probably really busy with work." It was killing me.

After weeks of subtle cajoling, I convinced my brother to tell my parents. It just wasn't right. They were upset--and looked at me with the eyes of the betrayed. But they realized that being angry was pointless. The kid was going to do what he wanted.

Monday, my brother had his cardiac cath. He did not allow any of the family to be there. His girlfriend, M, was there for him every step of the way, despite also supporting her family through a medical crisis of their own last week. Thank God for that girl. She texted and called us with updates and made sure he was doing ok. After the procedure, it was revealed that my brother had "coils" or Arteriovenous Malformations between his veins and arteries (that mix oxygenated and non-oxygenated blood, making it even harder to breathe and function). They were able to remove about four of them, but they "weren't able to solve the oxygen problem," whatever that means. So it wasn't a routine checkup. This thing was a full-blown procedure.

Who knows what the next steps are. Hopefully this new cardiologist is going to have some answers. This is the first time we were not there to see him groggy and high as a kite in the recovery room (but he did not disappoint over the phone--I'm pretty sure I got a Tupac Shakur serenade). That was really hard for us. But I can't even fathom what going through all this--and trying to protect us from it--must be like for him.

right-brain spy undercover in the land of the left

In my seventh-grade English class, we took a brain hemisphere test. It was pretty comprehensive and had more than 100 questions. I distinctly remember this because Mrs. Johnson (Johnston? I don't remember her being nice) called my score out as being odd because of all the questions, my answer correlated to either "Right Brain" or "Both." I did not answer a single question with a "Left Brain" answer.

Telling.

I only applied to one college--I couldn't decide what I wanted to do with my life and I saw a book with a grid for the amount of different majors different schools offered, and that school offered the most options. I hadn't even looked at a brochure, let alone visited campus. Those years were amazing and I have never regretted that decision.

I finally decided on a career, got a pretty cool internship and spent 10 years doing what I set out to do. And then suddenly I was laid off. And again. And again. And again. The industry was tanking. I had worked very hard to get where I was, and it was extremely difficult to walk away. But someone had to pay the mortgage.

I got a job in healthcare. Nobody cared about my previous accomplishments or what it took me to get them. I had to start at the bottom.

Slowly, I moved up, and now I find myself in an opportunity for a job that doesn't come very naturally to me. I look to my left and I see someone who majored in Math. I look to my right and see someone who majored in Statistics. I go to training and breeze through the lessons because I learn best by reading. The rest of the class barely looks at the books but jumps into the system and *figures* it out by playing around with trial and error. I write everything down and clutch onto my notebook like a safety blanket. It's like being a Snufalupagus at a princess party.

I have to figure out how to make this work for me. And things are getting better. Maybe I'm even learning to think like a Left-brainer. Thinking about this, I took another Right Brain/Left brain quiz:

Right Brain/ Left Brain Quiz The higher of these two numbers below indicates which side of your brain has dominance in your life. Realising your right brain/left brain tendancy will help you interact with and to understand others. Left Brain Dominance: (8) Right Brain Dominance: (14) Right Brain/ Left Brain Quiz

Some things just never change.


oh, what a feeling! toyota
In which I just knew about some things--and made a major life decision--based on a "feeling." I think that was even one of the left/right-brain questions.

the cake

There's a girl at work, Brenda, who bakes. In fact, back in the day she made cakes for events until it wasn't fun anymore. Her stuff is AMAZING, guys. I pretty much love most any type of dessert, unlike some people [cough, mom*, cough] whose praise peaks at "it was okay" for pretty much anything. Even she says Brenda's stuff is "pretty good" (read: blue ribbon!). It's sweet without being cloying, fluffy but still has substance and it's just all-around scrumptious. She makes her own frosting that's so light I never want to scrape any off before digging in. And the cakes look amazing, too--she's got a fat binder with all these "Ace-of-Cake" type photos and letters from people who love her stuff as much as we do. I've known I wanted her to make my wedding cake long ago, even before she created that awesome underwear graduation cake for my brother.

I'd seen Brenda turn people's requests down. She's in nursing school and working and has a family and lots of stuff going on. And I can only assume that the kinds of cakes she makes take a LOT of tender loving time. I was worried she'd say no. Somehow, my mom got her to do it.

Unfortunately Jon and I like things very simple, which can come off a little boring. We were thinking a really small, one-tier cake with maybe a ribbon around it for us to cut in front of everyone, and then a couple of sheet cakes the back (made by her, of course). We wanted to make the least work for Brenda as possible. But she wanted us to have a much bigger and fancier cake, with different layers in different colors. She convinced us to go with a three-tier cake featuring a white-on-white design that Jon liked. And then she made two extra sheet cakes as well. Yellow cake with strawberry filling. If anyone knows about the Jewel strawberry shortcakes around this area, it was better than that. And she made chocolate cake, too.

Before the wedding, Brenda had gone with me to the floral shop at the hospital. In a flash of reality a few weeks before the wedding, when mfm was trying to explain to me how far gone I was, I made the smart decision to have the florist make our boutonnieres and corsages because we were teetering on the precipice of too much DIY (before this wedding, I would have said there was no such thing, but I HAVE SEEN THE EDGE, PEOPLE, AND IT IS TERRIFYING). I had picked out some orange spray roses for Brenda to work with.

From the four or five bites I was able to inhale that day, this cake was every bit as good as I had hoped.

As per Syar's request, here is a clearer view of the detailing on the cake. I hope it's a little better.

You noticed the oddly misshapen stick figures on the front of the cake's middle tier? Yep, another sign the DIY train had been way too close to the cliff without a guardrail. My plan was to make a stick-figure caketopper out of floral wire as a callback to our invitations. It was a decent idea--just not one I should have been executing THE DAY OF OUR WEDDING WHILE SITTING IN THE MAKEUP CHAIR. I rave about my photographer not only because he does awesome work and has a great personality; he whipped up the "bouquet" the stick-figure bride is holding while I had to put down the pliers and look to the ceiling for mascara.

I realize that caketopper is not my best work. Another lesson I learned with this wedding is to just let things go, so I got over it. In fact, I'm just happy it was on the cake all: Jon and I were standing behind the cake when we cut it, so when I didn't see it on top of the cake, I assumed it wasn't there and was sad. I never should have doubted my sisters-in-law, cc and pp; they made SO much happen that I didn't even hear about until later. I only realized the stick figures had been on the cake all the time when we went to pick up the top tier and they were there in the box.

Don't take my word for it: There was a three-tier cake, plus two sheets in the back. And, aside from the top we got to save for next September 17, there wasn't a single piece of cake left over.

Brenda, if the nursing thing doesn't work out, please open a bakery.

unexpected

I'm sure you've noticed, but I never talk about work. A) Maybe I would if I were an astronaut or cowboy or pirate or something that warrants a "way of life" B) It's a liability C) I don't really share this blog with that many people (unless you count the 260-ish people who came to the wedding*).

Anyway, so I don't talk about what I do. But I will make an exception today.

I'm sort of a middleman, a fixer, a person whom they send in when people are angry and screaming and they're pretty sure are going to write a letter. I run around among many departments to try to solve some of the problems. And for some reason, they think I can. But here's the secret, which I learned in my old career: You don't actually have to know anything. You just have to know whom to ask.

There's a department I don't technically work in; it isn't even in the same building. But they call my office a lot. And while I haven't even met many of them in person (and those I did meet, just for a few minutes when I wanted to build credibility and went over there to introduce myself), I know all their voices. They called me over to their department the day before I went on vacation for the wedding to give me this:

It's a wedding cake. 

 Made out of bath towels.

I think I love the little white flowers the best. 

The woman who made it was fairly new to the job. And look at how much work she put into this; gluing down all the little flowers and pearls and the ribbons. Some of them were on recon, trying to figure out our wedding colors and when I'd be there. It was very very sweet. They all chipped in and got us the towels plus a giftcard to Macy's. You know I'm a sucker for thoughtful and handmade. I don't even work in their building.

I was so surprised and touched, I can't bring myself to take it apart.


*Please don't count all those people, because we shared the blogs with all of them and in the week after the wedding, I believe ONE new person visited it. Yes, we're lame enough that we checked. How could we not? This is how we met, for goodness' sake.

happy birthday, eileen. I wish you were still here.

I don't even know what to write. My coworker and friend, Eileen, with whom I shared crappy hours and a very small office for almost two years, passed away unexpectedly last Thursday night. Today she would have turned 34.

To make a long story short, Eileen had medical issues, the most significant being multiple sclerosis. But sickeningly, what actually took her away were complications (two blood clots in the lung and three more in her leg) of routine knee surgery. The technical term is Pulmonary Embolism, and it happens extremely quickly. She was complaining of severe pain, called her doctor and got her checkup appointment moved up from two weeks after the surgery to one. Then her husband went to the bathroom, and when he returned she wasn't breathing. CPR did not help.

I'm still trying to make sense of this. Every time someone opens the door to the office and just stands there without making an announcement, I turn around thinking she's ready for the day with her purple water bottle in one hand and her Disney lunch bag in the other. We spent a lot of time together in that office, and got to know each other very well.

* The smell of hard-boiled eggs/egg salad makes her gag.
* She's the only person I know who uses the word "boob" in a non-anatomical sense--to describe her husband when he forgets to do something.
* If there's ever an option to choose a color, she always picks purple, no hesitation.
* She loves Dave Matthews Band as much as my brother; they were often at the same concerts.
* She is a wonderful stepmom--it's a shame she never got to have a child who could live with her for more than a few weeks at a time.
* She puts ketchup on everything; the whole year I've been waiting for her birthday to give her a huge bottle to keep in the office fridge. Now it's just too late.
* She always remembers when something was going on with your family and asked how they were doing the next time she saw you.
* She'd been working on a puzzle of Cinderella's castle and it was driving her crazy.
* Last fall, she'd wanted to see the comedian Brian Regan but her friend got tickets for something else. She recently got to see him, at a show that Jon and Madelyn were also attending.
* Every time I went to California, she'd ask me to take pictures of palm trees to show her. She got married in the Bahamas and wore a jeweled palm tree necklace that her husband gave her every day.
* She is a really good friend, and suffered a lot when her best friends were going through tough times.
* She is so great with the patients, especially the really young and the really old.

Eileen loved flowers. She made the bouquets for her own wedding and we were looking forward to downtime in the office for her to help me with mine this summer. This past mother's day, her husband/stepdaughter got her a bouquet of "rainbow roses." I'm still unclear on how people get each petal to be a different color, but it looks stunning. One bud from the bouquet just snapped off, so Eileen brought it into the office so we all could enjoy it. Her husband sure wasn't a "boob" that day.

 

I was going to take a picture of it every day, but unfortunately it didn't even last a week. Eileen kept pulling the dying petals off.

I tacked them onto my bulletin board, next to the postcard from Madelyn and a picture of Jon. And my phone list. I look at them a thousand times every day.

Unfortunately, now I have a mass card pinned up next to it, with a picture of the sun setting over the ocean. Rest in peace, Eileen.