"Why you cryin'. Mama?"
My sleepy-eyed, just-turned-four-years-old-today daughter has just awoken from a rare nap. Rarer, still, in that she feel asleep in my arms after what was, in the four-year-old social scene, a pretty raucous birthday party. She thinks she's just asked a pretty simple question. But I don't have an easy answer.
I'm crying because there was a time we thought we might not be able to have any children, let alone two. Before we finally got pregnant with our son, I can remember literally getting on my knees and praying for a baby. Just one baby. I can remember thinking long and hard before uttering the second half of the prayer to God: "You don't have to give me one of your perfect ones. I'll take one of the ones others might not want. I'll learn the patience. Please just let me be somebody's mommy." Five and a half years later, we have not one, but two perfect children (perfect in form and function, that is...there's some wiggle room when it comes to the definition of behaviorally perfect).
I'm crying because as she slept, I thought about how neither one of us should have been here today. They took her early because of her size: 9 pounds, 15 ounces, two weeks before her official due date. I'd gone the c-section route before and so I knew something was not right with her delivery. It turns out having one giant baby 18 months after having had another giant baby took its toll. At some point in the last two weeks of my pregnancy, my uterus ruptured along the old incision. Lexi should have died and I should have bled out shortly after. The delivery docs and nurses were honestly amazed. I could hear them whispering about us while they weighed and cleaned Lexi and my doctor sewed me back up (I have crazy dog-like hearing, they didn't count on that). The irony is her size is the very thing that saved us. She was so big, her body held the torn flaps together, essentially plugging the hole. It may have been God looking out for us, it may have been luck. And while I give credit to both of those things, I give credit to my little girl, too. She has an iron will and fierce determination. I kind of like to think she somehow knew what was happening, gritted those little gums (no teeth at that time, of course), narrowed those big brown eyes, jutted out that little jaw and promptly jammed her little rear end into the gaping hole that tried to kill us and sat there until help arrived.
I am crying because she is beautiful. Honestly beautiful. I know all parents believe their kids are beautiful, but I really do know my daughter is. And I can say that without arrogance because the child looks NOTHING like me, at all! Her olive skin, dark hair, and dark eyes come straight from her Daddy's Italian genes. Even the build of her body and her funny little Fred Flintstone feet come from her daddy. Who knew my husband would be such a pretty girl! At four years old, she has a better tan than I have ever had in my life, including the summer I spent as a lifeguard. In fact, the only way I know for sure she is half mine is the tiny smattering of summer freckles spread across her nose (I used to get them as a kid) and her white-hot, lightning quick temper. It's a trait that was passed from my Grandfather to me (it sometimes skips a generation or two) and there is no mistaking it when you see it.
I am crying because she is confident and fearless and I hope the world never beats those attributes out of her. When I ask her who the most beautiful girl in the world is, she always knows the right answer. When we offer her the chance to try something new, she almost always takes it. What other four year old stomps around Busch Gardens angry that they wouldn't let her in Dark Castle or on the Big Bad Wolf because she is only 40 inches tall? I hope I find a way to protect her confidence and courage as I raise her so she doesn't lose them in her early 20's like I did.
I am crying because time seems like it is going so fast and I am starting to forget little things about her infancy and toddlerhood. But at the same moment, I am so proud of the little person she is and continues to become and that makes it hard not to be excited about her future and all that it holds.
I am crying because I am 100%, head-over-heels, over the moon in love with this little girl and her brother. I can't remember what life was like before them and don't want to imagine life without them.
I am crying because I have had had the honor of being this little miracle's mother for 1,459 days and feel like I have learned far more from her than she from me. I hope I have another 22,000 days or so on this earth to learn all she has to teach me. But for now, I am soaking in every single second that she is letting me hold her while she sleeps. I know, absolutely know, I am holding a angel in my arms.
"Why you cryin', Mama?"
I just sigh and smile. "Because I'm happy, baby. I'm just very happy. Happy birthday, my angel. I love you very much."
"I wuv you more. Get me some milky."
Ahhhh...the princess is awake ; )
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
What a Difference a Doctor Makes
Today was our much-anticipated consult with the pediatric surgeon. For those short on time, I'll not bury the lead: we still don't know a whole lot more specifics than before, but the news is generally good. Certainly, at the very least, it is better than what we were led to expect a couple of weeks ago.
To bring you up to speed, to this point we know there is a mass on/above/near/in the general vicinity of Lexi's spine. Her pediatrician called the radiology report from the ultrasound "concerning" and scared the bejesus out of us by adding that she might have cancer. The blood test showed "perfect counts", pretty much ruling out leukemia and lymphoma, but we still don't know what this thing is. We were told the next step would be a visit with the pediatric surgeon, but no one ever really clarified for us what, exactly, the surgeon would be doing.
It is not surprising, then, that today's appointment started with a lot of anger and frustration on our end. Our only instructions to this point have been to show up at the CHKD satellite office at 1 p.m. We've not been given a phone number to call to ask questions. We've not received a phone call telling us what will be happening. We have not even received a letter with pertinent information. We walked in the doors unsure of whether we were merely having a consult with the surgeon (whose name we wouldn't even know for another hour or two) or whether our daughter might be undergoing a biopsy or even surgery before the afternoon ended.
We were ominously directed to check in "upstairs" in the surgery department instead of in the main check-in area. This would be a good time for me to point out that in the process of trying to have kids, having kids, and repairing the significant internal damage done by said kids (reiterating note to self: those two will NOT be getting their security deposits back after the way they trashed the place) I underwent six surgeries in 4 1/2 years. Point being, I know a thing or two about surgery prep. So, as we head to the elevators, I start to worry that perhaps Lex should have been NPO (nothing to eat or drink) and since she has not been NPO, I start thinking that this may be a totally wasted visit. As it turns out, it was not a problem, but it gave me something to stew about while we waited a very long time for the surgeon to see us.
When the surgeon finally came in, it was a total 180 for us from our previous experiences. For starters, she was very calm and projected a general air of confidence and knowledge without the slightest hint of arrogance. The "God Complex" so commonly found in surgeons was nowhere to be found. Let me tell you how reassuring it is to a worried parent to feel like the person behind the wheel knows what the hell they are doing! Bedside manner-wise, she wasn't the greatest with Lexi. She wasn't mean or scary or anything, just not as kid-oriented as you might think a pediatric surgery specialist might be. But, A) most of the kids she deals with on a daily basis are anesthetized and don't care if she is Patch Adams or not and B) I'm not auditioning her to be a birthday party clown so I don't really care if she can pull a quarter out of my kid's ear as long as she can pull a mystery lump out of the kid's back!
At any rate, she came out of the gate with a totally different take on the radiologist's report. Instead of finding it "concerning" as Doogie did, she said the u/s pretty much confirmed to her that whatever it is, the lump is most likely benign (it helps that she personally knows and trusts the radiologist who read the scan). It also helps that the lump has gotten noticeably smaller over the past few days. In her words, "Horrible things don't get smaller. Horrible things get bigger." Finally, she was very pleased with how the thing feels when she manipulates it. Apparently, horrible things behave and feel differently than the thing on Lexi behaves and feels. I am loathe to admit that I find it rather skeevy to touch so I try not to touch it. But with a doctor for a brother-in-law and a retired nurse for a mother, I have come to understand over the years that medical people enjoy such human oddities...the squishier, the smellier, and the pussier, the better in their book.
The surgeon laid out three possibilities for what she thinks the lump could be, none of them overly scary or terrible. Her best guess is that it is a rebellious lymph node. Then she left it to us to decide what to do. Option A is to continue to monitor it over the next 3 to 6 months to see what it does. Option B is to have it surgically removed. She gave us pros and cons for each option and then said Lexi's case falls right in the middle: the risks involved with surgery are equal to the risks involved with waiting. Then she said the magic words that I needed to hear - words spoken NOT from surgeon to patient/parent but words from one mother to another: "If it were my kid, I'd probably wait at least three months and then reevaluate."
So that is what we have decided to do. While I don't like the idea of this "thing" inside my kid, I like the idea of putting my just-about-four year old through an unnecessary surgery even less. The decision was made easier when she added the caveat that if we find ourselves lying awake at night worrying, we can call at any time and schedule to have it removed. She says they frequently do such surgeries not because they are medically necessary but because it eases the minds of terrified parents.
She answered every question we had honestly and completely. As she was getting ready to leave the room, she asked both of us if we had any more questions or concerns. Then she told us, "My door is always open. Please call me if you have any questions or concerns between now and when we reevaluate in a few months." All of which left me wondering: Who is this woman and where do I find a pediatrician like her????
I'm not sure when I will consider this saga to be truly over. Part of me wonders if surgery would be the right move. At least then we would know for certain what is hiding under our daughter's skin and it would bring some closure. If it goes away on its own, I will be happy, but will probably always worry that it is just lurking, waiting to come back. But I keep coming back to the notion that it is not fair to put my child through surgery, no matter how minor, just to ease my own neuroses and insecurities. So for now, we will pray that we have made the right decision and pray that it continues to shrink away to nothing and never, ever comes back.
In the meantime, I'll start the process of searching for a new pediatrician. Looking at the situation with the veil of panic and terror finally lifted, it is clear that this has been poorly managed from the outset. Our trust has been breached and I don't think that can be repaired. There is no point continuing to see a doctor/practice if I will forever doubt anything and everything they say. So if anyone in our area has a practice or a doctor that they just love, let me know!
For now, hug your babies no matter how old those babies may be and thank God for every moment He gives you with them.
To bring you up to speed, to this point we know there is a mass on/above/near/in the general vicinity of Lexi's spine. Her pediatrician called the radiology report from the ultrasound "concerning" and scared the bejesus out of us by adding that she might have cancer. The blood test showed "perfect counts", pretty much ruling out leukemia and lymphoma, but we still don't know what this thing is. We were told the next step would be a visit with the pediatric surgeon, but no one ever really clarified for us what, exactly, the surgeon would be doing.
It is not surprising, then, that today's appointment started with a lot of anger and frustration on our end. Our only instructions to this point have been to show up at the CHKD satellite office at 1 p.m. We've not been given a phone number to call to ask questions. We've not received a phone call telling us what will be happening. We have not even received a letter with pertinent information. We walked in the doors unsure of whether we were merely having a consult with the surgeon (whose name we wouldn't even know for another hour or two) or whether our daughter might be undergoing a biopsy or even surgery before the afternoon ended.
We were ominously directed to check in "upstairs" in the surgery department instead of in the main check-in area. This would be a good time for me to point out that in the process of trying to have kids, having kids, and repairing the significant internal damage done by said kids (reiterating note to self: those two will NOT be getting their security deposits back after the way they trashed the place) I underwent six surgeries in 4 1/2 years. Point being, I know a thing or two about surgery prep. So, as we head to the elevators, I start to worry that perhaps Lex should have been NPO (nothing to eat or drink) and since she has not been NPO, I start thinking that this may be a totally wasted visit. As it turns out, it was not a problem, but it gave me something to stew about while we waited a very long time for the surgeon to see us.
When the surgeon finally came in, it was a total 180 for us from our previous experiences. For starters, she was very calm and projected a general air of confidence and knowledge without the slightest hint of arrogance. The "God Complex" so commonly found in surgeons was nowhere to be found. Let me tell you how reassuring it is to a worried parent to feel like the person behind the wheel knows what the hell they are doing! Bedside manner-wise, she wasn't the greatest with Lexi. She wasn't mean or scary or anything, just not as kid-oriented as you might think a pediatric surgery specialist might be. But, A) most of the kids she deals with on a daily basis are anesthetized and don't care if she is Patch Adams or not and B) I'm not auditioning her to be a birthday party clown so I don't really care if she can pull a quarter out of my kid's ear as long as she can pull a mystery lump out of the kid's back!
At any rate, she came out of the gate with a totally different take on the radiologist's report. Instead of finding it "concerning" as Doogie did, she said the u/s pretty much confirmed to her that whatever it is, the lump is most likely benign (it helps that she personally knows and trusts the radiologist who read the scan). It also helps that the lump has gotten noticeably smaller over the past few days. In her words, "Horrible things don't get smaller. Horrible things get bigger." Finally, she was very pleased with how the thing feels when she manipulates it. Apparently, horrible things behave and feel differently than the thing on Lexi behaves and feels. I am loathe to admit that I find it rather skeevy to touch so I try not to touch it. But with a doctor for a brother-in-law and a retired nurse for a mother, I have come to understand over the years that medical people enjoy such human oddities...the squishier, the smellier, and the pussier, the better in their book.
The surgeon laid out three possibilities for what she thinks the lump could be, none of them overly scary or terrible. Her best guess is that it is a rebellious lymph node. Then she left it to us to decide what to do. Option A is to continue to monitor it over the next 3 to 6 months to see what it does. Option B is to have it surgically removed. She gave us pros and cons for each option and then said Lexi's case falls right in the middle: the risks involved with surgery are equal to the risks involved with waiting. Then she said the magic words that I needed to hear - words spoken NOT from surgeon to patient/parent but words from one mother to another: "If it were my kid, I'd probably wait at least three months and then reevaluate."
So that is what we have decided to do. While I don't like the idea of this "thing" inside my kid, I like the idea of putting my just-about-four year old through an unnecessary surgery even less. The decision was made easier when she added the caveat that if we find ourselves lying awake at night worrying, we can call at any time and schedule to have it removed. She says they frequently do such surgeries not because they are medically necessary but because it eases the minds of terrified parents.
She answered every question we had honestly and completely. As she was getting ready to leave the room, she asked both of us if we had any more questions or concerns. Then she told us, "My door is always open. Please call me if you have any questions or concerns between now and when we reevaluate in a few months." All of which left me wondering: Who is this woman and where do I find a pediatrician like her????
I'm not sure when I will consider this saga to be truly over. Part of me wonders if surgery would be the right move. At least then we would know for certain what is hiding under our daughter's skin and it would bring some closure. If it goes away on its own, I will be happy, but will probably always worry that it is just lurking, waiting to come back. But I keep coming back to the notion that it is not fair to put my child through surgery, no matter how minor, just to ease my own neuroses and insecurities. So for now, we will pray that we have made the right decision and pray that it continues to shrink away to nothing and never, ever comes back.
In the meantime, I'll start the process of searching for a new pediatrician. Looking at the situation with the veil of panic and terror finally lifted, it is clear that this has been poorly managed from the outset. Our trust has been breached and I don't think that can be repaired. There is no point continuing to see a doctor/practice if I will forever doubt anything and everything they say. So if anyone in our area has a practice or a doctor that they just love, let me know!
For now, hug your babies no matter how old those babies may be and thank God for every moment He gives you with them.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
I Wish He Would Have Just Told Me I'm Crazy
About a week and a half ago, as I was dressing Lexi for bed, I noticed a bump right in the middle of her back exactly between her shoulder blades. At first, I thought it was just the way she was positioned and what I was feeling was just a bone in her spine protruding slightly. But it was still there even when she changed positions. Now, Mike and I tend to be very hands-on parents in every sense, so with all the hugging, wrestling, back-rubbing, dressing, hair fixing, and bathing that goes on, new lumps, bumps, bruises, and boo-boos are usually noticed right away. That is especially true in summer when bathing suits are constantly getting put on and taken off and I always seem to be drying off and warming up a kiddo in the perpetually chilly Y locker room. And we were coming off a particularly active weekend, so I chalked it up to either a bug bite or a bruise or swelling from one of the 15 times she rode the new kids' roller coaster at Busch Gardens (the ride is fun, but seriously, I think the seats are made from unpadded iron). The point being, I'm pretty sure the bump could not have been there long before I discovered it.
On Thursday, I picked my daughter up to give her a hug and noticed it was still there. I pulled her hair back and could clearly see the lump. I showed Mike and he agreed that it didn't look quite right. The pediatrician asked to see her that afternoon - apparently the phrase "lump on her spine" earns you a coveted same-day sick visit slot.
When the doctor came in, I told him I really hoped he was just going to chalk me up as a crazy, overbearing mom, but that Mike and I would really just feel better having Lexi checked. Despite the brevity, I had a nagging feeling in my gut and could not shake the thought that no medical professional has probably ever started a sentence with, "Great news! We found a lump!" I'm certainly no doctor, but in my experience, when it comes to the human body, lumps are rarely a good thing. It didn't help ease our minds that both the doctor and the nurse were able to see the lump from 8 feet across the room before the physical exam even started. It sort of blew away the illusion that maybe vanity had made us hyper-sensitive to this ugly thing on our beautiful baby.
He prodded and checked, asking Lexi questions along the way. She was her usual bashful and charming self, answering everything he asked in her mystery NY accent and still turning half of her Ls and Rs into Ws, highlighting just how little she still is.
When he was done, I waited to be judged as nutty Ms. Suman who freaks out over the smallest of things. But that didn't happen. Instead, the doctor said, "I have no idea what it is". Now, I should point out that I have nicknamed this particular doctor "Doogie". He is new to the practice and fairly new to doctoring, in general. And I don't necessarily consider this a bad thing. I believe younger doctors often have an advantage in that their training is still top of mind and I have found them more willing to double check information or ask for second opinions than more seasoned docs. The drawback, of course, is they have far less clinical experience and, as such, don't have a wealth of anecdotes and patients from which to draw parallels. I kept thinking, "I wish Dr. Bob was here today. I'm sure he's seen this a hundred times." Unfortunately, that hope, too, was shattered when the radiologist at CHKD (Children's Hospital of the Kings Daughters) agreed with Doogie: they needed an ultrasound to figure out what it was.
I can go on a long tangent here about how they originally scheduled the u/s for 11 days later and all the hoops Mike jumped through to get it moved. Very long story short, however, Mike got them to move it up to Tuesday the 16th. You can't tell two worried parents that you don't know what is wrong with their child and then tell them to wait almost two weeks for the next step in figuring out what to do!
While the u/s itself was uneventful (Lex was a perfect angel), everything surrounding it was stressful. As we sat in the waiting room, my heart was racing in my chest. Mike was uncharacteristically quiet. But I had to pretend all was wonderful to keep Lexi from getting scared. All three of us went in for the u/s and it was torture for Mike and me. The tech was typically inscrutable. I could not get her face or eyes to betray whatever she was seeing on the screen. And, of course, I knew that if the image on the screen was making no sense to me, Mike would not have a clue - to this day he STILL can't see Lexi's face clear as day on the final u/s of my pregnancy! At that point, everything and everyone becomes suspect to a worried mom. The tech gave Lexi six stickers. Was it because she really was very good or was it because the tech had seen something horrible and felt sorry for us? We weren't allowed to leave until the tech talked to the radiologist. Was that S.O.P to make sure the views were clear or was whatever was there so terrible that the radiologist needed to be consulted right away???
There is another tangential tale for another time that goes here about the wild goose chase and associated frustration and anger at trying to find out the results of the u/s in a timely fashion. But I will sum it up by saying pediatric nurses who get an attitude with a mother who has heard and seen the words "unknown spinal growth" and "soft tissue mass above T3" in relation to her not-quite-four year old should either consider a different career or have a quick refresher course in empathy and basic human decency.
After an interminable and agonizing wait, the doctor finally called to talk to me at 2 on Wednesday afternoon. I retreated to my bedroom closet, the place I usually go to take phone calls when either I or the caller needs to be able concentrate without the steady din of shrieks, laughter, and general destruction generated by an almost-four year old and 5 1/2 year old playing together in the background. The call was not what I had been expecting.
"I finally have the results of Alexis' ultrasound and they are concerning." Not a good start to the conversation. My heart starts pounding all over again and I can't say anything so he plows ahead. He proceeds to read from the radiologists' report. I understand the words but don't have the medical experience to put them in context, so Doogie stammers around but eventually does it for me: "There is no blood supply to it, so it doesn't appear to be a tumor. However, there is an outside possibility, and she doesn't have any of the other symptoms, but there is a chance, a small chance...well, we can't rule out that we could be looking at leukemia or lymphoma."
You know how you read in books or hear a character on TV or in a movie say their head was spinning? It really happens. I got dizzy and had to sit on the floor of my closet. It became difficult to hear because the blood started pounding in my ears. I had to concentrate to breathe. I went into a flop sweat. Did he really just say that my child, my baby, my little girl - the sweet, shy, little Italian princess with the fiery temper who loves her brother and all things sparkly and pink and purple, the little pumpkin who just starting writing her own name and learned her phone number from her "brudder" - THAT child might have cancer? Ever wonder what goes through your head at a moment like that? I'll tell you: Please, God, no.
I asked him to re-read the radiology report and began scribbling random words on an empty shoe box so I could try to accurately relate the information to my husband and my parents and my sister: "leukemia", "lymphoma". It won't matter because I am shaking so badly the words are barely legible.
He says he wants her in for a blood test right away and asks where we live. I tell him but also say it doesn't matter. He just needs to tell me what lab he wants to use and I will take her wherever we need to go the minute we are off the phone. I'm still crumpled on the floor of the closet when I call Mike. As soon as I say leukemia and lymphoma, I can hear him actually gasp. For the past week, we've been consumed with conversations about financial worries, and when my new job would start, and taking the deadbeat client who owes us $8,000 to court...and right now, neither one of us gives a damn about any of it because someone just told us our baby might be very, very sick. I want to cry, my head is pounding, and I feel like I might throw up. But I have to walk into the playroom and cheerfully announce to Lexi that we need to go see another doctor because Dr. Robinson needs some more information. To her, going to the doctor means stickers and treats, so she happily hops off the chair and asks if she can bring her glow-in-the-dark dinosaur with her. It truly feels like someone is twisting a knife in my heart. I grab the finger rosary someone gave me a few years ago and the guardian angel token I keep on my vanity, shove one in each pocket, and head out.
We leave in such a rush that I barely have time to leave a message for my mom. I don't give any details...I don't want her and my dad to hear those words on a message. I just tell her the doctor wants blood work. Normally, I would call at least one of my two best friends, too, but there is not time and I don't know how many more times I can say the words before I really do lose what little composure I still have. I'm not sure I have ever felt quite so alone. I know I have never been that scared. As many of you know, one of my best friends is a local television news anchor. Funnily enough, as I made the turn onto the street where the lab is located, I got behind an ad-mobile. I looked up to see a life-sized picture of my friend smiling at me from the truck. Sounds weird, but it made me feel a little less alone, at least for a minute.
I sign in at the lab and have to ask the receptionist the date. I can remember it is June but I can't think clearly enough to remember the day. At that moment I am struck by the irony. I can't conjure up the date but there is a chance, depending on what the white blood cell count shows, that the date will be seared in my brain forever with dates of other terrible anniversaries: July 29th: the day my grandfather died, November 27th: the day my grandmother died, March 4th: the day Tucker went to heaven.
Meanwhile, Lexi is blissfully unaware that anything is not right. She comments on the dresses worn by the cartoon princesses decorating the walls. She keeps mistakenly calling Pinocchio "Pokemon" as she colors a picture of him. She laughs out loud as Donkey does his shtick on the "Shrek" DVD they just started. I, on the other hand, am spinning my finger rosary so fast that I might get a blister. I'm trying to say prayers but keep losing the words as other thoughts ricochet around my brain: "Hail Mary..." how do you explain cancer to a four year old? "...full of grace..." I'll shave my head with her if she loses her hair. "...the Lord is with thee..." what if I have to pick out a tiny casket or speak at her funeral? How could I ever find the words to make the world know how much we love her and how much she means to us and how I don't think I can live without her. I can't do this...
I can remember being on a walk with my mom one time when I was a little girl. I was maybe seven and it is one of those memories that is clear as day to me; I can even tell you exactly where we were in the old neighborhood at the time. Somehow, the topic of death came up and I told her how scared I was of it. I distinctly remember her telling me that when people got older they got less scared of dying and I remember at that moment thinking how brave my mom must be. But I think now I understand it better. I think she was not saying that death is any less intimidating, I think she meant that when you have kids, dying is no longer the worst thing that could happen to you. But something happening to your child - something you can't prevent and you can't fix, well, that is sheer terror. I think any parent would tell you they would die a thousand deaths to spare their child one.
They call us back and I hold Lex in my lap while they draw blood. I didn't tell her it would be a blood draw for selfish reasons so now she is pissed and sad, and fat tears roll down her cheeks onto my arm. I dry her eyes and hold her tight and hope she doesn't notice that I am crying, too.
We go home to wait. Dr. Doogie has put a STAT order on the blood work and Mike has made it clear we are to be called even if there is no news to report, so we will probably hear something tonight. Tears stream down my face as I read the dozens of messages of encouragement and offers of prayers from the Duckies (an online community of mommies who have been my friends since the days of trying to get pregnant with Jamie). Lex and I sit on the couch, her enjoying the fact that I am letting her watch crappy TV shows, me clutching the phone in a death grip.
At 5:15 the phone finally rings. I peel myself off the ceiling and answer it. It is Dr. Doogie. The pathologist has not reviewed the blood work yet, but the tech has. She says all the counts are perfect. She has noted a single atypical cell, but the doc says that is normal - we all have a certain number of atypical cells and he would not be concerned unless there were a bunch of them. The tech told the doctor she is only forwarding it on to pathology because it is what his orders say to do. Under regular circumstances, this is not a sample that would merit further review by the pathologist. We still don't know what it is, but it is probably NOT leukemia or lymphoma. Probably. He hedged his bets again with that word.
So, today we wait for confirmation of the tech's initial analysis from the pathologist. Assuming (praying) there are no changes, we move on to the next step which is a biopsy and/or surgical removal. I still have a nagging feeling in my gut but I am not sure I can trust it right now. The stark terror of the past 24 hours has colored everything. It will be a while before I can separate instinct from fear again.
Again, for those of you who pray, please keep my little girl and our family in your prayers. I'm not sure we are out of the woods but I am hoping we can see the edge of the forest from where we are. While it is probably not cancer, we still don't know what it is and that is more than a little disconcerting. Go find your babies and give them hugs. For the rest of the day, laugh when you want to yell, let them get absolutely filthy and then get dirty with them, and maybe even let them have dessert before dinner. One day of indulgence won't spoil them forever.
On Thursday, I picked my daughter up to give her a hug and noticed it was still there. I pulled her hair back and could clearly see the lump. I showed Mike and he agreed that it didn't look quite right. The pediatrician asked to see her that afternoon - apparently the phrase "lump on her spine" earns you a coveted same-day sick visit slot.
When the doctor came in, I told him I really hoped he was just going to chalk me up as a crazy, overbearing mom, but that Mike and I would really just feel better having Lexi checked. Despite the brevity, I had a nagging feeling in my gut and could not shake the thought that no medical professional has probably ever started a sentence with, "Great news! We found a lump!" I'm certainly no doctor, but in my experience, when it comes to the human body, lumps are rarely a good thing. It didn't help ease our minds that both the doctor and the nurse were able to see the lump from 8 feet across the room before the physical exam even started. It sort of blew away the illusion that maybe vanity had made us hyper-sensitive to this ugly thing on our beautiful baby.
He prodded and checked, asking Lexi questions along the way. She was her usual bashful and charming self, answering everything he asked in her mystery NY accent and still turning half of her Ls and Rs into Ws, highlighting just how little she still is.
When he was done, I waited to be judged as nutty Ms. Suman who freaks out over the smallest of things. But that didn't happen. Instead, the doctor said, "I have no idea what it is". Now, I should point out that I have nicknamed this particular doctor "Doogie". He is new to the practice and fairly new to doctoring, in general. And I don't necessarily consider this a bad thing. I believe younger doctors often have an advantage in that their training is still top of mind and I have found them more willing to double check information or ask for second opinions than more seasoned docs. The drawback, of course, is they have far less clinical experience and, as such, don't have a wealth of anecdotes and patients from which to draw parallels. I kept thinking, "I wish Dr. Bob was here today. I'm sure he's seen this a hundred times." Unfortunately, that hope, too, was shattered when the radiologist at CHKD (Children's Hospital of the Kings Daughters) agreed with Doogie: they needed an ultrasound to figure out what it was.
I can go on a long tangent here about how they originally scheduled the u/s for 11 days later and all the hoops Mike jumped through to get it moved. Very long story short, however, Mike got them to move it up to Tuesday the 16th. You can't tell two worried parents that you don't know what is wrong with their child and then tell them to wait almost two weeks for the next step in figuring out what to do!
While the u/s itself was uneventful (Lex was a perfect angel), everything surrounding it was stressful. As we sat in the waiting room, my heart was racing in my chest. Mike was uncharacteristically quiet. But I had to pretend all was wonderful to keep Lexi from getting scared. All three of us went in for the u/s and it was torture for Mike and me. The tech was typically inscrutable. I could not get her face or eyes to betray whatever she was seeing on the screen. And, of course, I knew that if the image on the screen was making no sense to me, Mike would not have a clue - to this day he STILL can't see Lexi's face clear as day on the final u/s of my pregnancy! At that point, everything and everyone becomes suspect to a worried mom. The tech gave Lexi six stickers. Was it because she really was very good or was it because the tech had seen something horrible and felt sorry for us? We weren't allowed to leave until the tech talked to the radiologist. Was that S.O.P to make sure the views were clear or was whatever was there so terrible that the radiologist needed to be consulted right away???
There is another tangential tale for another time that goes here about the wild goose chase and associated frustration and anger at trying to find out the results of the u/s in a timely fashion. But I will sum it up by saying pediatric nurses who get an attitude with a mother who has heard and seen the words "unknown spinal growth" and "soft tissue mass above T3" in relation to her not-quite-four year old should either consider a different career or have a quick refresher course in empathy and basic human decency.
After an interminable and agonizing wait, the doctor finally called to talk to me at 2 on Wednesday afternoon. I retreated to my bedroom closet, the place I usually go to take phone calls when either I or the caller needs to be able concentrate without the steady din of shrieks, laughter, and general destruction generated by an almost-four year old and 5 1/2 year old playing together in the background. The call was not what I had been expecting.
"I finally have the results of Alexis' ultrasound and they are concerning." Not a good start to the conversation. My heart starts pounding all over again and I can't say anything so he plows ahead. He proceeds to read from the radiologists' report. I understand the words but don't have the medical experience to put them in context, so Doogie stammers around but eventually does it for me: "There is no blood supply to it, so it doesn't appear to be a tumor. However, there is an outside possibility, and she doesn't have any of the other symptoms, but there is a chance, a small chance...well, we can't rule out that we could be looking at leukemia or lymphoma."
You know how you read in books or hear a character on TV or in a movie say their head was spinning? It really happens. I got dizzy and had to sit on the floor of my closet. It became difficult to hear because the blood started pounding in my ears. I had to concentrate to breathe. I went into a flop sweat. Did he really just say that my child, my baby, my little girl - the sweet, shy, little Italian princess with the fiery temper who loves her brother and all things sparkly and pink and purple, the little pumpkin who just starting writing her own name and learned her phone number from her "brudder" - THAT child might have cancer? Ever wonder what goes through your head at a moment like that? I'll tell you: Please, God, no.
I asked him to re-read the radiology report and began scribbling random words on an empty shoe box so I could try to accurately relate the information to my husband and my parents and my sister: "leukemia", "lymphoma". It won't matter because I am shaking so badly the words are barely legible.
He says he wants her in for a blood test right away and asks where we live. I tell him but also say it doesn't matter. He just needs to tell me what lab he wants to use and I will take her wherever we need to go the minute we are off the phone. I'm still crumpled on the floor of the closet when I call Mike. As soon as I say leukemia and lymphoma, I can hear him actually gasp. For the past week, we've been consumed with conversations about financial worries, and when my new job would start, and taking the deadbeat client who owes us $8,000 to court...and right now, neither one of us gives a damn about any of it because someone just told us our baby might be very, very sick. I want to cry, my head is pounding, and I feel like I might throw up. But I have to walk into the playroom and cheerfully announce to Lexi that we need to go see another doctor because Dr. Robinson needs some more information. To her, going to the doctor means stickers and treats, so she happily hops off the chair and asks if she can bring her glow-in-the-dark dinosaur with her. It truly feels like someone is twisting a knife in my heart. I grab the finger rosary someone gave me a few years ago and the guardian angel token I keep on my vanity, shove one in each pocket, and head out.
We leave in such a rush that I barely have time to leave a message for my mom. I don't give any details...I don't want her and my dad to hear those words on a message. I just tell her the doctor wants blood work. Normally, I would call at least one of my two best friends, too, but there is not time and I don't know how many more times I can say the words before I really do lose what little composure I still have. I'm not sure I have ever felt quite so alone. I know I have never been that scared. As many of you know, one of my best friends is a local television news anchor. Funnily enough, as I made the turn onto the street where the lab is located, I got behind an ad-mobile. I looked up to see a life-sized picture of my friend smiling at me from the truck. Sounds weird, but it made me feel a little less alone, at least for a minute.
I sign in at the lab and have to ask the receptionist the date. I can remember it is June but I can't think clearly enough to remember the day. At that moment I am struck by the irony. I can't conjure up the date but there is a chance, depending on what the white blood cell count shows, that the date will be seared in my brain forever with dates of other terrible anniversaries: July 29th: the day my grandfather died, November 27th: the day my grandmother died, March 4th: the day Tucker went to heaven.
Meanwhile, Lexi is blissfully unaware that anything is not right. She comments on the dresses worn by the cartoon princesses decorating the walls. She keeps mistakenly calling Pinocchio "Pokemon" as she colors a picture of him. She laughs out loud as Donkey does his shtick on the "Shrek" DVD they just started. I, on the other hand, am spinning my finger rosary so fast that I might get a blister. I'm trying to say prayers but keep losing the words as other thoughts ricochet around my brain: "Hail Mary..." how do you explain cancer to a four year old? "...full of grace..." I'll shave my head with her if she loses her hair. "...the Lord is with thee..." what if I have to pick out a tiny casket or speak at her funeral? How could I ever find the words to make the world know how much we love her and how much she means to us and how I don't think I can live without her. I can't do this...
I can remember being on a walk with my mom one time when I was a little girl. I was maybe seven and it is one of those memories that is clear as day to me; I can even tell you exactly where we were in the old neighborhood at the time. Somehow, the topic of death came up and I told her how scared I was of it. I distinctly remember her telling me that when people got older they got less scared of dying and I remember at that moment thinking how brave my mom must be. But I think now I understand it better. I think she was not saying that death is any less intimidating, I think she meant that when you have kids, dying is no longer the worst thing that could happen to you. But something happening to your child - something you can't prevent and you can't fix, well, that is sheer terror. I think any parent would tell you they would die a thousand deaths to spare their child one.
They call us back and I hold Lex in my lap while they draw blood. I didn't tell her it would be a blood draw for selfish reasons so now she is pissed and sad, and fat tears roll down her cheeks onto my arm. I dry her eyes and hold her tight and hope she doesn't notice that I am crying, too.
We go home to wait. Dr. Doogie has put a STAT order on the blood work and Mike has made it clear we are to be called even if there is no news to report, so we will probably hear something tonight. Tears stream down my face as I read the dozens of messages of encouragement and offers of prayers from the Duckies (an online community of mommies who have been my friends since the days of trying to get pregnant with Jamie). Lex and I sit on the couch, her enjoying the fact that I am letting her watch crappy TV shows, me clutching the phone in a death grip.
At 5:15 the phone finally rings. I peel myself off the ceiling and answer it. It is Dr. Doogie. The pathologist has not reviewed the blood work yet, but the tech has. She says all the counts are perfect. She has noted a single atypical cell, but the doc says that is normal - we all have a certain number of atypical cells and he would not be concerned unless there were a bunch of them. The tech told the doctor she is only forwarding it on to pathology because it is what his orders say to do. Under regular circumstances, this is not a sample that would merit further review by the pathologist. We still don't know what it is, but it is probably NOT leukemia or lymphoma. Probably. He hedged his bets again with that word.
So, today we wait for confirmation of the tech's initial analysis from the pathologist. Assuming (praying) there are no changes, we move on to the next step which is a biopsy and/or surgical removal. I still have a nagging feeling in my gut but I am not sure I can trust it right now. The stark terror of the past 24 hours has colored everything. It will be a while before I can separate instinct from fear again.
Again, for those of you who pray, please keep my little girl and our family in your prayers. I'm not sure we are out of the woods but I am hoping we can see the edge of the forest from where we are. While it is probably not cancer, we still don't know what it is and that is more than a little disconcerting. Go find your babies and give them hugs. For the rest of the day, laugh when you want to yell, let them get absolutely filthy and then get dirty with them, and maybe even let them have dessert before dinner. One day of indulgence won't spoil them forever.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Excitement
Another mom I know from an online forum posed a question today. While having a discussion with some co-workers who have kids, the topic of excitement came up. Specifically, whether other moms felt like they were missing something from their younger, single days. So this mom asked us (the other forum moms) if we felt like there was an element of excitement missing.
My knee-jerk reaction was to scream, "Yes! Where has all the excitement gone???" But, as I often do, I stopped for a moment to really ponder the question. In so doing, I realized it is really all about perspective. I mean, if I even HAD the free time I did when I was young and single, would I still find the same things "exciting"? And I went on to realize that many of the things that have become commonplace and mundane to me are actually pretty amazing.
So this is how I answered her question:
Define "excitement" If you mean spontanaity, then probably not. Most everything I do is carefully planned and days, even weeks, are back-timed to make sure everything that needs to get done does. There's no throwing caution to the wind and catching a movie on a whim or heading out of town at the last minute. On the other hand, however, in the past five years I've talked at 2 year old into handing over a decorative knife that I *thought* was out of his reach; I've vaulted a train table and a four year old to catch a 50+ pound dresser as it began to fall onto a three year old; I made a no-look catch as a two year old accidentally backflipped off a swing; I pounded incompletely chewed food out of the esophaguses of different little people on different occasions; I've fixed countless boo-boos; I've skipped countless hours of sleep; I've handled diapers that literally made grown men gag; I've wiped puke off my car, my kids, myself using only one semi-damp wipe and some old McDonald's napkins from the glove compartment; I've led "potty parades" complete with original musical compositions; flown with an infant and toddler; I've saved the day by chasing down a puppy that was accidentally let out of the house by children (more than once); taught two little people to say "please", "thank you", "I love you" and everything else; made ordinary pancakes into baseball pancakes; taught myself to make character cakes for birthdays; taught a three year old my secret chocolate chip cookie recipe and fought the urge to freak out when she spilled the flour and broke the egg before it got to the bowl; braved the grocery store with two pre-schoolers chanting, "He's touching me" "She's touching me" the ENTIRE time; made up innumerable crafts using glitter glue, pipe cleaners, and construction paper; let an 18 month old eat chocolate ice cream in a white dress; scraped squash off of floors, ceilings, and walls; remembered what was so great about Christmas; stood in countless lines for countless hours to see movies, ride rides, and purchase gifts; missed every adult movie but didn't really miss them at all; gladly handed over the only trophy I've won in 20 years to a four year old who told me he was proud of me; let a three and a four year old pick the Halloween costume I would wear in public; dropped everything to volunteer at school, coach soccer, cheer at basketball games, and bring snacks to the cutest tiny baseball players I've ever seen; convinced two little people that there was nothing to be scared of when I was terrified myself; yelled my head off; made up songs and sang them in public; laughed and cried more than I thought humanly possible...So maybe not excitement in the traditional sense, but you'd be hard pressed to find a dull moment in my life! I'm not sure I could take any more stimulation, to tell you the truth.
My knee-jerk reaction was to scream, "Yes! Where has all the excitement gone???" But, as I often do, I stopped for a moment to really ponder the question. In so doing, I realized it is really all about perspective. I mean, if I even HAD the free time I did when I was young and single, would I still find the same things "exciting"? And I went on to realize that many of the things that have become commonplace and mundane to me are actually pretty amazing.
So this is how I answered her question:
Define "excitement" If you mean spontanaity, then probably not. Most everything I do is carefully planned and days, even weeks, are back-timed to make sure everything that needs to get done does. There's no throwing caution to the wind and catching a movie on a whim or heading out of town at the last minute. On the other hand, however, in the past five years I've talked at 2 year old into handing over a decorative knife that I *thought* was out of his reach; I've vaulted a train table and a four year old to catch a 50+ pound dresser as it began to fall onto a three year old; I made a no-look catch as a two year old accidentally backflipped off a swing; I pounded incompletely chewed food out of the esophaguses of different little people on different occasions; I've fixed countless boo-boos; I've skipped countless hours of sleep; I've handled diapers that literally made grown men gag; I've wiped puke off my car, my kids, myself using only one semi-damp wipe and some old McDonald's napkins from the glove compartment; I've led "potty parades" complete with original musical compositions; flown with an infant and toddler; I've saved the day by chasing down a puppy that was accidentally let out of the house by children (more than once); taught two little people to say "please", "thank you", "I love you" and everything else; made ordinary pancakes into baseball pancakes; taught myself to make character cakes for birthdays; taught a three year old my secret chocolate chip cookie recipe and fought the urge to freak out when she spilled the flour and broke the egg before it got to the bowl; braved the grocery store with two pre-schoolers chanting, "He's touching me" "She's touching me" the ENTIRE time; made up innumerable crafts using glitter glue, pipe cleaners, and construction paper; let an 18 month old eat chocolate ice cream in a white dress; scraped squash off of floors, ceilings, and walls; remembered what was so great about Christmas; stood in countless lines for countless hours to see movies, ride rides, and purchase gifts; missed every adult movie but didn't really miss them at all; gladly handed over the only trophy I've won in 20 years to a four year old who told me he was proud of me; let a three and a four year old pick the Halloween costume I would wear in public; dropped everything to volunteer at school, coach soccer, cheer at basketball games, and bring snacks to the cutest tiny baseball players I've ever seen; convinced two little people that there was nothing to be scared of when I was terrified myself; yelled my head off; made up songs and sang them in public; laughed and cried more than I thought humanly possible...So maybe not excitement in the traditional sense, but you'd be hard pressed to find a dull moment in my life! I'm not sure I could take any more stimulation, to tell you the truth.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Thanks, but no thanks.
I wrote this one a couple of months ago and posted it on MySpace - I know, how very "tweener" of me. But I'll post it here because it bears repeating (and because it makes me look I spent a really long time today composing my thoughts and writing them down today).
An open letter to email forwarders:
My dear "friends",
For many years now, you have thoughtfully included me in every "cc" to every inane, inappropriate, misguided, misinformed, and downright ridiculous email chain letter that has come along.
You have warned me of gang initiations, protected me from Achilles slashers lurking under my car, enlightened me to all the secular humanists trying to remove God from quarters and schools and courts and everywhere else (after all, we all know separation of church and state is for Communists, anyway). I've learned all the things my cell phone can do that I never knew, and all the reasons I should vote Republican, or Democrat, or Green. You've provided countless chances to change my luck for the better (or worse) and money-making opportunities. Incidentally, Bill Gates has still not sent me my check for that email beta program, did you get yours? I digress. Even when I change email addresses, you steadfastly track me down to make sure I have all the latest vital information care of an anonymously composed and forwarded email message of dubious origin.
Today, I have realized, with great shame, how very selfish I have been. In all these years, I have never returned the courtesy to you. Not once have I forwarded warnings, opportunities, or critical political information to you. In fact, I have failed to even prove what a good friend I am by sending messages to 20 other friends including the one who sent it to me. When I think of how many chains "died" right there in my inbox…well, it is almost more than I can bear. Many people would have given up on me long ago. "Fine," they would sniff. "Let her flash her bright lights at the '79 Caprice Classic low rider with the rear hydraulics and thumping subwoofers and see what happens to her and her small children. My conscience is clear." But not you, my good, loyal, tenacious friend. Not you. No, you send it again and again. A sort of cyber-intervention aimed at protecting me from myself by perpetuating stereotypes, preying on fears and furthering urban myths and legends like some giant game of grown-up "Telephone".
Because you have invested so much time and effort into this endeavor over the years, I feel I owe you the following explanation as to why I have failed to be as good a friend to you as you have been to me.
"Friend" emails: If I call you friend, it is because I have genuine affection for you. I care about you and things that happen in your life. I trust you apply the same definition to me. If you know me well enough to call me friend, then you probably know my life is very busy, chaotic even. I have two small children who are not yet school-aged who I care for just about all day, every day. I run a household, managing most of the family admin including scheduling, shopping, boo-boo soothing and maintenance, and even occasionally cleaning (when I can find my vacuum amongst the clutter, that is). I own and operate a small business. I am a freelance writer in my "spare" time. I try to devote equitable chunks of time to my family, my in-laws, and friends. I also volunteer at preschool, and stay active in various business and civic organizations. Friends, there have been days where I have been awake for 4 hours or more before I've found two minutes to use the restroom (though by then, it usually takes more than two minutes to expel the 15 gallons of urine that have collected in my superhuman mom-bladder). Please don't give me one more thing to do in my already jam-packed day. We are friends. There, I've said it for all the world to hear. Please don't ask me to validate it and prove it daily by sending a flowery email back to you and everyone else in my address book. We're not dating. We're past the "prove your love to me" phase of our relationship. I don't have time and if you really love me as much as the little flapping butterfly and doe-eyed cartoon child in your email says you do, you will understand that. Also, what kind of a person sends an email about friendship that ends with a promise of horrible, disfiguring, tragic luck for not responding? God help me if I don't answer the phone when you call. Do you call in the hit squad for that, "friend"?
"Warning" and "Informational" emails: I appreciate your concern for my safety and the health and safety of my CPU and hard drive, I really do. Three words for you: Snopes Dot Com. Please take the two minutes it would normally take you to blindly and blithely forward these emails on to everyone you ever met to look up the subject matter on this highly informative site. You'll find somewhere in the neighborhood of 99.0 to 99.99% of them are completely false.
And my favorite, "Political" emails: Like most people, my political beliefs are a complicated amalgam of my upbringing, my gender, my socioeconomic status, my family status, my level and quality of education, the amount of time I spend independently researching and reading about the issues of import to me, and myriad other factors. Please don't insult my intelligence by assuming some random facts or quotes taken entirely out of context (or thin air, even) slapped into an email will, in any way, inform my vote or influence my opinions. And please don't assume my political leanings are the same as yours just because we live in the same neighborhood, shop at the same grocery store, cheer for the same tee-ball team or visit the same OB/Gyn. If you really want to make a difference this election year, save the political forwards and instead compose a brief but heartfelt note to everyone in your address book encouraging them to get out and vote. Democrat, Republican, it matters not. Here, I know how you like to forward, so I'll make it easy for you to cut-n-paste:
"Dear Friends,
In this election year it is critical that you get off your ample American derrières, stuff your sorrys in a sack, get to the polls and cast your ballot. Each candidate has many pros and many cons. Please take a few moments to learn what each stands for then decide which most closely represents the views and opinions you'd like to see implemented in this great country of ours. If you aren't willing to head to the polls (the threat of drizzle IS a good reason to abdicate your primary right as an American citizen), consider registering to vote absentee by mail. If you are not willing to do that, either, then let's make this deal right now: In exchange for the vote that you will not be casting, you promise that you will keep your pie hole shut on any and every political matter for the next four years. Not one peep about the administration, not a cross word about the IRS, not the slightest utterance on Roe v. Wade. If you don't care enough to engage in the process, I sure don't care what you have to say about the system.
Please forward this message to everyone in your address book immediately or you will develop a hideous case of hemorrhoids, hammer toes, and halitosis* within a matter of days.
Have a lovely day!"
*(I like the "h" conditions; they are the most fun to say)
To summarize, I would be eternally grateful if, in the future, you would use a bit more discretion in deciding which emails to forward to me. The marzipan babies? Those were cool. I don't mind the funny little fruit carvings and even the guy who paints his hands to resemble all sorts of exotic animals. Oooh, and that guy who does the sidewalk chalk? You know, from one angle they just look like some weird out-of-proportion drawing but from another they become really detailed 3D creations? Yeah, those'd be OK, too. I don't even mind the occasional "Edna" email (she's that old lady from the cards). For pretty much everything else, don't worry – it won't hurt my feelings if you leave this "strong, smart, independent woman" off your list. We'll still be friends, even if I don't validate it by forwarding it on to my Great Uncle and my college roommate's brother's wife.
Your Friend,
Mary
An open letter to email forwarders:
My dear "friends",
For many years now, you have thoughtfully included me in every "cc" to every inane, inappropriate, misguided, misinformed, and downright ridiculous email chain letter that has come along.
You have warned me of gang initiations, protected me from Achilles slashers lurking under my car, enlightened me to all the secular humanists trying to remove God from quarters and schools and courts and everywhere else (after all, we all know separation of church and state is for Communists, anyway). I've learned all the things my cell phone can do that I never knew, and all the reasons I should vote Republican, or Democrat, or Green. You've provided countless chances to change my luck for the better (or worse) and money-making opportunities. Incidentally, Bill Gates has still not sent me my check for that email beta program, did you get yours? I digress. Even when I change email addresses, you steadfastly track me down to make sure I have all the latest vital information care of an anonymously composed and forwarded email message of dubious origin.
Today, I have realized, with great shame, how very selfish I have been. In all these years, I have never returned the courtesy to you. Not once have I forwarded warnings, opportunities, or critical political information to you. In fact, I have failed to even prove what a good friend I am by sending messages to 20 other friends including the one who sent it to me. When I think of how many chains "died" right there in my inbox…well, it is almost more than I can bear. Many people would have given up on me long ago. "Fine," they would sniff. "Let her flash her bright lights at the '79 Caprice Classic low rider with the rear hydraulics and thumping subwoofers and see what happens to her and her small children. My conscience is clear." But not you, my good, loyal, tenacious friend. Not you. No, you send it again and again. A sort of cyber-intervention aimed at protecting me from myself by perpetuating stereotypes, preying on fears and furthering urban myths and legends like some giant game of grown-up "Telephone".
Because you have invested so much time and effort into this endeavor over the years, I feel I owe you the following explanation as to why I have failed to be as good a friend to you as you have been to me.
"Friend" emails: If I call you friend, it is because I have genuine affection for you. I care about you and things that happen in your life. I trust you apply the same definition to me. If you know me well enough to call me friend, then you probably know my life is very busy, chaotic even. I have two small children who are not yet school-aged who I care for just about all day, every day. I run a household, managing most of the family admin including scheduling, shopping, boo-boo soothing and maintenance, and even occasionally cleaning (when I can find my vacuum amongst the clutter, that is). I own and operate a small business. I am a freelance writer in my "spare" time. I try to devote equitable chunks of time to my family, my in-laws, and friends. I also volunteer at preschool, and stay active in various business and civic organizations. Friends, there have been days where I have been awake for 4 hours or more before I've found two minutes to use the restroom (though by then, it usually takes more than two minutes to expel the 15 gallons of urine that have collected in my superhuman mom-bladder). Please don't give me one more thing to do in my already jam-packed day. We are friends. There, I've said it for all the world to hear. Please don't ask me to validate it and prove it daily by sending a flowery email back to you and everyone else in my address book. We're not dating. We're past the "prove your love to me" phase of our relationship. I don't have time and if you really love me as much as the little flapping butterfly and doe-eyed cartoon child in your email says you do, you will understand that. Also, what kind of a person sends an email about friendship that ends with a promise of horrible, disfiguring, tragic luck for not responding? God help me if I don't answer the phone when you call. Do you call in the hit squad for that, "friend"?
"Warning" and "Informational" emails: I appreciate your concern for my safety and the health and safety of my CPU and hard drive, I really do. Three words for you: Snopes Dot Com. Please take the two minutes it would normally take you to blindly and blithely forward these emails on to everyone you ever met to look up the subject matter on this highly informative site. You'll find somewhere in the neighborhood of 99.0 to 99.99% of them are completely false.
And my favorite, "Political" emails: Like most people, my political beliefs are a complicated amalgam of my upbringing, my gender, my socioeconomic status, my family status, my level and quality of education, the amount of time I spend independently researching and reading about the issues of import to me, and myriad other factors. Please don't insult my intelligence by assuming some random facts or quotes taken entirely out of context (or thin air, even) slapped into an email will, in any way, inform my vote or influence my opinions. And please don't assume my political leanings are the same as yours just because we live in the same neighborhood, shop at the same grocery store, cheer for the same tee-ball team or visit the same OB/Gyn. If you really want to make a difference this election year, save the political forwards and instead compose a brief but heartfelt note to everyone in your address book encouraging them to get out and vote. Democrat, Republican, it matters not. Here, I know how you like to forward, so I'll make it easy for you to cut-n-paste:
"Dear Friends,
In this election year it is critical that you get off your ample American derrières, stuff your sorrys in a sack, get to the polls and cast your ballot. Each candidate has many pros and many cons. Please take a few moments to learn what each stands for then decide which most closely represents the views and opinions you'd like to see implemented in this great country of ours. If you aren't willing to head to the polls (the threat of drizzle IS a good reason to abdicate your primary right as an American citizen), consider registering to vote absentee by mail. If you are not willing to do that, either, then let's make this deal right now: In exchange for the vote that you will not be casting, you promise that you will keep your pie hole shut on any and every political matter for the next four years. Not one peep about the administration, not a cross word about the IRS, not the slightest utterance on Roe v. Wade. If you don't care enough to engage in the process, I sure don't care what you have to say about the system.
Please forward this message to everyone in your address book immediately or you will develop a hideous case of hemorrhoids, hammer toes, and halitosis* within a matter of days.
Have a lovely day!"
*(I like the "h" conditions; they are the most fun to say)
To summarize, I would be eternally grateful if, in the future, you would use a bit more discretion in deciding which emails to forward to me. The marzipan babies? Those were cool. I don't mind the funny little fruit carvings and even the guy who paints his hands to resemble all sorts of exotic animals. Oooh, and that guy who does the sidewalk chalk? You know, from one angle they just look like some weird out-of-proportion drawing but from another they become really detailed 3D creations? Yeah, those'd be OK, too. I don't even mind the occasional "Edna" email (she's that old lady from the cards). For pretty much everything else, don't worry – it won't hurt my feelings if you leave this "strong, smart, independent woman" off your list. We'll still be friends, even if I don't validate it by forwarding it on to my Great Uncle and my college roommate's brother's wife.
Your Friend,
Mary
They are Trying To Kill Me
This was really not the topic I had in mind for my inaugural blog. My first blog was going to be something erudite and full of insight. "This will not be simply a 'mom' blog," I said to myself. My first entry would be thought-provoking, world-changing, even. People who know me would be rendered speechless. "We had no idea such genius walked among us," they would muse, wiping tears from their eyes as my words moved their souls. But as the title of this blog suggests, I live a cluttered life inside a cluttered head. So, much like my cluttered house, I've decided sometimes you just deal with things as they present themselves to you.
It is not unlike my method of house cleaning: I start out with a plan to clean the kitchen but that requires moving the preschool projects into the "preschool projects folder" (it is far less organized that it sounds). In that process, I will find any number of toys that need to be returned to the playroom upstairs, so I will search for an empty laundry basket for that purpose. There are, of course, no empty laundry baskets necessitating that I start a load of laundry to empty one. But, invariably there is a forgotten and mildewing load of clothes already in there that must now be re-run before I can put the new load in.
With the laundry basket still occupied and the washer unavailable, it is back to the original plan of cleaning the kitchen. Next step, sort the week-and-a-half worth of mail that gets plunked on the counter by the door (I'm just saying, if you aren't going to sort it, don't bring it in...but that is a blog for another day). Oh, look at that! There's that bill that will be coming due on the 2nd. What? The second was LAST Tuesday, you say??? Great! Now it is off to the computer to pay bills. And while I'm here, I'm going to be very selfish...I'm going to take thirty seconds and check my email. I might even RESPOND to one or two! How decadent!!! Oh, wait, no can do. The four year old needs help wiping his bum. ONLY my help. NOT Daddy's help. Mommy has apparently earned some sort of advanced degree in Rectal Sanitation Engineering and as such, the customers agree, is the far superior choice for all matters fecal related. At which point the three year old will most assuredly run by naked, screaming in wild-eyed terror as the puppy nips after her. This prompts a discussion about a) appropriate times and places for one to disrobe and b) not feeding the puppy 38 pounds of treats and then expecting him to leave you alone when you run away with one still in each hand. During this discussion, said puppy will have chewed the limbs off of at least one cherished toy, "Which should never have been brought down here in the first place, dammit! What is it going to take for you to start taking care of your things? If you cared so much about it, it wouldn't be where Spooky could get it! Maybe I'll just call Santa myself and tell him to skip our house this year! Go to your room! And as for you, into your crate! Bad dog!!!"
By now it is bath and bed time. I am on the verge of a stroke. The kitchen is still not clean. In fact, I'll admit it. It has not been clean since 2003. The laundry will sit in the washer overnight and get funky, AGAIN. And, at some point, between the laughter which turns to screaming/crying/fighting and back to laughter going on in the bathtub, I will try to remember what my life was like before these two little tornados blew into it. You know what? I wouldn't trade it for the world. Well, maybe reverting back to the pre-child levels of poo interaction on any given day would be nice.
In the posts to come, the topics will vary widely. But ultimately, no matter how hard I try, I know this will end up being a 'mom blog'. Because for mothers, from the moment those little people enter your life, every opinion, every thought, every breath is influenced from its inception by "momness". It is a permanent prism through which you will forever see world.
As for the title of this very first blog, I sat down to write it moments after my three year old daughter very nearly succeeded in pulling a dresser over onto her tiny person. In a moment that convinces me further of the need for instant replay in my own life, I somehow managed to leap from across the room, over a train table (stubbing a toe on my right foot and landing square on a metal toy airplane with the heel of my besocked left foot in the process) and execute a perfectly thrown shoulder block - you'd have been proud, honey - to slam the dresser back up and into the wall before it squashed my baby. Then I sat down on the aforementioned train table until I stopped shaking enough to walk again (and pry the airplane out of my left heel). And as I sat there, I hoped that the 80's are overrated (the age, not the decade) because I am pretty sure I lost those 10 years in that one harrowing moment. The 90's were wiped out early on by my son and his various exploits in his first three years of life. Like the time he hit his head and needed a CT scan (the doctor told us to watch for "jerky uncoordinated movements"...he was 12 months old - ALL the movements were jerky and uncoordinated), or the time he burned his hand in a fire pit, or the time he broke a tooth wrestling with my dad, or the time he licked a printer cartridge (for your own reference, poison control said he would be OK), or the time he found a knife and wandered around with it (jeez...just reading over that list makes me want to call social services on myself). So whether it is by attempting to induce a stroke or a heart attack by pushing my various buttons, or by trying new and unexpected ways to kill themselves, my kids are trying to kill me. But I gotta say, most of the time, I really enjoy being on their hit list!
It is not unlike my method of house cleaning: I start out with a plan to clean the kitchen but that requires moving the preschool projects into the "preschool projects folder" (it is far less organized that it sounds). In that process, I will find any number of toys that need to be returned to the playroom upstairs, so I will search for an empty laundry basket for that purpose. There are, of course, no empty laundry baskets necessitating that I start a load of laundry to empty one. But, invariably there is a forgotten and mildewing load of clothes already in there that must now be re-run before I can put the new load in.
With the laundry basket still occupied and the washer unavailable, it is back to the original plan of cleaning the kitchen. Next step, sort the week-and-a-half worth of mail that gets plunked on the counter by the door (I'm just saying, if you aren't going to sort it, don't bring it in...but that is a blog for another day). Oh, look at that! There's that bill that will be coming due on the 2nd. What? The second was LAST Tuesday, you say??? Great! Now it is off to the computer to pay bills. And while I'm here, I'm going to be very selfish...I'm going to take thirty seconds and check my email. I might even RESPOND to one or two! How decadent!!! Oh, wait, no can do. The four year old needs help wiping his bum. ONLY my help. NOT Daddy's help. Mommy has apparently earned some sort of advanced degree in Rectal Sanitation Engineering and as such, the customers agree, is the far superior choice for all matters fecal related. At which point the three year old will most assuredly run by naked, screaming in wild-eyed terror as the puppy nips after her. This prompts a discussion about a) appropriate times and places for one to disrobe and b) not feeding the puppy 38 pounds of treats and then expecting him to leave you alone when you run away with one still in each hand. During this discussion, said puppy will have chewed the limbs off of at least one cherished toy, "Which should never have been brought down here in the first place, dammit! What is it going to take for you to start taking care of your things? If you cared so much about it, it wouldn't be where Spooky could get it! Maybe I'll just call Santa myself and tell him to skip our house this year! Go to your room! And as for you, into your crate! Bad dog!!!"
By now it is bath and bed time. I am on the verge of a stroke. The kitchen is still not clean. In fact, I'll admit it. It has not been clean since 2003. The laundry will sit in the washer overnight and get funky, AGAIN. And, at some point, between the laughter which turns to screaming/crying/fighting and back to laughter going on in the bathtub, I will try to remember what my life was like before these two little tornados blew into it. You know what? I wouldn't trade it for the world. Well, maybe reverting back to the pre-child levels of poo interaction on any given day would be nice.
In the posts to come, the topics will vary widely. But ultimately, no matter how hard I try, I know this will end up being a 'mom blog'. Because for mothers, from the moment those little people enter your life, every opinion, every thought, every breath is influenced from its inception by "momness". It is a permanent prism through which you will forever see world.
As for the title of this very first blog, I sat down to write it moments after my three year old daughter very nearly succeeded in pulling a dresser over onto her tiny person. In a moment that convinces me further of the need for instant replay in my own life, I somehow managed to leap from across the room, over a train table (stubbing a toe on my right foot and landing square on a metal toy airplane with the heel of my besocked left foot in the process) and execute a perfectly thrown shoulder block - you'd have been proud, honey - to slam the dresser back up and into the wall before it squashed my baby. Then I sat down on the aforementioned train table until I stopped shaking enough to walk again (and pry the airplane out of my left heel). And as I sat there, I hoped that the 80's are overrated (the age, not the decade) because I am pretty sure I lost those 10 years in that one harrowing moment. The 90's were wiped out early on by my son and his various exploits in his first three years of life. Like the time he hit his head and needed a CT scan (the doctor told us to watch for "jerky uncoordinated movements"...he was 12 months old - ALL the movements were jerky and uncoordinated), or the time he burned his hand in a fire pit, or the time he broke a tooth wrestling with my dad, or the time he licked a printer cartridge (for your own reference, poison control said he would be OK), or the time he found a knife and wandered around with it (jeez...just reading over that list makes me want to call social services on myself). So whether it is by attempting to induce a stroke or a heart attack by pushing my various buttons, or by trying new and unexpected ways to kill themselves, my kids are trying to kill me. But I gotta say, most of the time, I really enjoy being on their hit list!
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