Greg House has become my albatross; no amount of money, worry or efforts seem to alleviate him of his discomfort. Last night, after having spent almost half an hour fighting with him so I could clean his open wounds and apply gauze bandages, I flew off the handle when he had managed to tear them off not even 20 minutes later. Part of my rage was the knowledge that it's not his fault--he's a cat who is itching uncontrollably, and he wants to attack the source of his itch. As a human, I'd want to do the same thing. The difference is that he has no sense of self-control; the concept of letting the wound heal doesn't enter the framework of his mind, and so no amount of chiding or yelling on my part will keep him from attacking his own body. My poor little boy.
Poor me. I feel like I'm starting to lose it just a little bit. He's still on his cortizone meds, but these steroids don't seem to be combatting the itch anymore. He's also on an antibiotic so that his open wounds don't get infected. He can't stay on these drugs indefinitely. So, I pour hydrogen peroxide on his wounds and watch them fizzle and bubble under the substance. He spends the entire time trying to run away, so we have a constant battle of wills, with me sternly telling my unconvinced cat that I'm doing all this for his own good. He just yowls a warbled meow and looks around the room for escape.
I've been making homemade Elizabethan collars out of styrofoam plates to place around his neck, to keep him from biting his wounds. He has now figured out how to break them off. After trying band-aids that he's bitten off, gauze and tape that he's ripped off, this morning I wrapped his band-aid with an Ace bandage--wrapped his whole body up in it. He was pissed, but I was resilient. These wounds are going to heal if it's the last thing I do. Problem is, eventually they'll need exposure to air to form a scab and truly heal. I don't know how to leave them open without him attacking them and opening them back up again. It really is quite a debacle.
I'm leaving him at the vet for the week that I'm with Adam. I figured he'd get a little more interaction if he's constantly exposed to doctors and technicians running about everyday. Plus, if he starts to really tear himself apart, medical attention should be there to take care of him. Should, being the operative word. I'm starting to think that once I'm back in town, I'll be seeking a second opinion from another veterinarian. Things just aren't getting any better right now, and we've dumped way too much money into our current vet clinic to not have better results. My little albatross is costing me a fortune.
Supposedly, to be a ship followed by an albatross is a good omen; having killed the albatross that followed his ship, the Mariner and his crewmates in the "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" were plagued by misfortune and death. I wonder if the reverse has been true for me--my seeming good deed of adopting this homeless kitty was actually a sign of bad things to come. There's a reason people tell you not to feed a stray--so it won't follow you home.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Dilemmas for the Living
I guess I'm somewhat unusual (or maybe I'm the norm?) in that I don't have a real fear of dying. I have a fear of being killed, because of the loss of control and pain aspects of that. I don't want someone else to have the final say in when I'm going to go. But I've always thought that if I were going to take my own life, or die of a disease, I wouldn't be afraid. Sad, but not afraid. After all, some of the people I've found most interesting in this world have joined the list of the non-living--Robert Stack, Bernie Mac, Beverly Sills. They all did it and they're (probably) okay...why wouldn't I be?
No, I'm much more fearful of losing someone I love. I know the day will probably come--a mother, a sibling, husband, friend--but I'm not really prepared for it. Just the thought of it can lead to terror-filled nightmares of my life spinning out of control, my days filled with dread, spent comatose in bed. I don't know if that's how it would really be, but that's how I feel it would be. When Adam and I talk of our mortality, he always says, "Stop being so melodramatic, Lady! You're young and you'd find someone else. You'd forget about me within a few hours!" I know he's trying to lighten the mood, but I sometimes think he doesn't actually know how deeply and truly I'd grieve if something did happen. I know it's cliched to say so, but my world really would collapse around me if something happened to him.
But that's really not what I wanted to write about. The topic I've really been wondering about for the last several months is how people deal with moving on from the death of a loved one. How do you reconcile how your life has changed--maybe for the better--once a loved one has passed away? A notable example is that of Vice President Joe Biden. We've all heard the tragic story of the young politician who lost his wife and daughter in a car accident, left to raise his two young sons alone. Some years later, he met his future wife Jill. My question is, if he could have had it all over again, would he still choose for his life to have worked out the way it did? Wouldn't he want his first wife and daughter to have lived? But what about his love for his current wife? If his first wife had never died, he would never have married Jill. How does he reconcile that?
On a more personal note (and I'll leave names out for the privacy of those mentioned), I have a friend who has dealt with this very dilemma. She was only a baby when her father died of cancer, so she grew up only knowing him through photographs and letters he wrote to relatives and friends. While she has a deep respect and love for him as her father, I'm not sure she has a sadness for a man she never knew. However, her older sister was 5 or 6 when the father died, and remembers him quite well. Because of this, she still deals with a lot of emotion from having lost him so young. My friend once told me that she and her sister have very differet perspectives on his death. My friend said that while she is sad to have never known her father, his death set in motion a course of life events--growing up close to her mother and sister, marrying her husband, having her kids--that she would never trade in, not even for having had her father alive while growing up. Her sister, on the other hand, disagrees. She feels like if her father had lived, her live would be different, but just as good. She might have chosen a different career path that she loved just as much, another husband who she was as in love with, given birth to other children who would have been her world just as her current kids are. For her, having had her father in her life while growing up would be worth having ended up living a different life.
I remember once watching characters on my soap opera, Guiding Light. Ed Bauer had lost his longtime wife, Maureen, to a murder, but had found solace years later in Eve. I remember asking my mother how he could truly be happy with Eve, knowing that he was only with her because of Maureen's death. I said, "If Ed could have either Maureen or Eve, who do you think he'd choose?" My mother hesitated for a moment before responding, "I think he'd choose to have his wife back. Few people would prefer to have a loved one dead." I pressed on: "But what about Eve? He loves her, too? What would he want for her?" Mum answered, "I think he'd wish her well, hoping that she would have found true love with someone else."
So is that how it works? If you could have your loved one back from the dead, you'd wish happy things for all the people who entered your life because that person died, but you'd be willing to give them up? Or is it more complicated than that? Do people not even think these questions because figuring out the answers would be too hard? When I think about something awful happening to Adam, the thought of meeting someone else doesn't occur to me. It feels like the relationship would be tainted, like I only met this person because of Adam's death. There's nothing romantic about that. But I also admit that since I'm not in the position of being a widow(er), I don't know what it's like to be lonely for companionship and wish for a partner again. In my mind, now, Adam is it.
I realize that for many of you who read this blog, this whole topic could hit a sensitive spot, and I'm not asking anyone to talk about anything they don't want to. However, it is a subject that genuinely interests me--how do we deal with the joy that is created from someone's death, and would we return the joy if we could get that person back?
Apologies for bringing up any sad memories for anyone, or for bringing anyone down. However, if anyone out there wants to talk about this topic, I am very interested.
No, I'm much more fearful of losing someone I love. I know the day will probably come--a mother, a sibling, husband, friend--but I'm not really prepared for it. Just the thought of it can lead to terror-filled nightmares of my life spinning out of control, my days filled with dread, spent comatose in bed. I don't know if that's how it would really be, but that's how I feel it would be. When Adam and I talk of our mortality, he always says, "Stop being so melodramatic, Lady! You're young and you'd find someone else. You'd forget about me within a few hours!" I know he's trying to lighten the mood, but I sometimes think he doesn't actually know how deeply and truly I'd grieve if something did happen. I know it's cliched to say so, but my world really would collapse around me if something happened to him.
But that's really not what I wanted to write about. The topic I've really been wondering about for the last several months is how people deal with moving on from the death of a loved one. How do you reconcile how your life has changed--maybe for the better--once a loved one has passed away? A notable example is that of Vice President Joe Biden. We've all heard the tragic story of the young politician who lost his wife and daughter in a car accident, left to raise his two young sons alone. Some years later, he met his future wife Jill. My question is, if he could have had it all over again, would he still choose for his life to have worked out the way it did? Wouldn't he want his first wife and daughter to have lived? But what about his love for his current wife? If his first wife had never died, he would never have married Jill. How does he reconcile that?
On a more personal note (and I'll leave names out for the privacy of those mentioned), I have a friend who has dealt with this very dilemma. She was only a baby when her father died of cancer, so she grew up only knowing him through photographs and letters he wrote to relatives and friends. While she has a deep respect and love for him as her father, I'm not sure she has a sadness for a man she never knew. However, her older sister was 5 or 6 when the father died, and remembers him quite well. Because of this, she still deals with a lot of emotion from having lost him so young. My friend once told me that she and her sister have very differet perspectives on his death. My friend said that while she is sad to have never known her father, his death set in motion a course of life events--growing up close to her mother and sister, marrying her husband, having her kids--that she would never trade in, not even for having had her father alive while growing up. Her sister, on the other hand, disagrees. She feels like if her father had lived, her live would be different, but just as good. She might have chosen a different career path that she loved just as much, another husband who she was as in love with, given birth to other children who would have been her world just as her current kids are. For her, having had her father in her life while growing up would be worth having ended up living a different life.
I remember once watching characters on my soap opera, Guiding Light. Ed Bauer had lost his longtime wife, Maureen, to a murder, but had found solace years later in Eve. I remember asking my mother how he could truly be happy with Eve, knowing that he was only with her because of Maureen's death. I said, "If Ed could have either Maureen or Eve, who do you think he'd choose?" My mother hesitated for a moment before responding, "I think he'd choose to have his wife back. Few people would prefer to have a loved one dead." I pressed on: "But what about Eve? He loves her, too? What would he want for her?" Mum answered, "I think he'd wish her well, hoping that she would have found true love with someone else."
So is that how it works? If you could have your loved one back from the dead, you'd wish happy things for all the people who entered your life because that person died, but you'd be willing to give them up? Or is it more complicated than that? Do people not even think these questions because figuring out the answers would be too hard? When I think about something awful happening to Adam, the thought of meeting someone else doesn't occur to me. It feels like the relationship would be tainted, like I only met this person because of Adam's death. There's nothing romantic about that. But I also admit that since I'm not in the position of being a widow(er), I don't know what it's like to be lonely for companionship and wish for a partner again. In my mind, now, Adam is it.
I realize that for many of you who read this blog, this whole topic could hit a sensitive spot, and I'm not asking anyone to talk about anything they don't want to. However, it is a subject that genuinely interests me--how do we deal with the joy that is created from someone's death, and would we return the joy if we could get that person back?
Apologies for bringing up any sad memories for anyone, or for bringing anyone down. However, if anyone out there wants to talk about this topic, I am very interested.
Red, Red Wine
A silly post as a lead-in to a more somber one...thought I'd balance the dark with the light.
"60 Minutes" is on right now, and Morley Safir is talking about how the relatively recent scientific discovery of the health benefits of drinking red wine has been trumped by the even more recent discovery that red wine could extend human life. When Dr. Oz was on "Oprah" a couple months ago talking about the "Blue Zones", or the areas of the world where the highest density of people over the age of 100 live, he talked about how the people of Italy drink red wine. Actually, Dr. Oz said that any type of alcohol can be beneficial in moderate amounts (did someone say gin and tonic???), but since I am particularly partial to red wine, that'll be good enough for me...for now.
I have recently been informed of a study that was just published that indicated that a fetus in utero can actually benefit from a glass of red wine everyday (no joke). While the scientist in me is telling the lush in me "Go ahead, make your day!", the future mother in me is hesitating, only taking a few small sips of Inauguration Day champagne, or of the Gewurtztraminer at a friend's dinner party. Wee Willie has been pretty darn good to me so far; no reason to not repay the favor. So, assuming that I don't contract progeria before the baby is born, I think I can wait till then to start my life-extending red wine regimen. You better believe Wee Willie will have some particulary potent breast milk in his/her future!
"60 Minutes" is on right now, and Morley Safir is talking about how the relatively recent scientific discovery of the health benefits of drinking red wine has been trumped by the even more recent discovery that red wine could extend human life. When Dr. Oz was on "Oprah" a couple months ago talking about the "Blue Zones", or the areas of the world where the highest density of people over the age of 100 live, he talked about how the people of Italy drink red wine. Actually, Dr. Oz said that any type of alcohol can be beneficial in moderate amounts (did someone say gin and tonic???), but since I am particularly partial to red wine, that'll be good enough for me...for now.
I have recently been informed of a study that was just published that indicated that a fetus in utero can actually benefit from a glass of red wine everyday (no joke). While the scientist in me is telling the lush in me "Go ahead, make your day!", the future mother in me is hesitating, only taking a few small sips of Inauguration Day champagne, or of the Gewurtztraminer at a friend's dinner party. Wee Willie has been pretty darn good to me so far; no reason to not repay the favor. So, assuming that I don't contract progeria before the baby is born, I think I can wait till then to start my life-extending red wine regimen. You better believe Wee Willie will have some particulary potent breast milk in his/her future!
Friday, January 23, 2009
The Case of the Mystery Pumper
For the almost-year that I've been at my current job, I've noticed that there is a woman who sits in the curtained-off area adjacent to the bathroom stalls in the ladies' bathroom to pump (breast milk, that is). The first time I encountered this, I had gone to the bathroom, subconsciously hearing a rhythmic, mechanical zhwoo-zhwoo! sound in the distance. Being that I was not a mother, had no intentions of being a mother anytime soon (laugh), and really haven't been around women with breast pumps before, I didn't quite 'get it'. I kept leaning into the wall where the towel dispenser hung, thinking the noise was emanating from there. Realizing instead that the noise was coming from behind me, I turned around and started moving toward the curtained-off area. Was there some electrical problem or other mechanical issue that the maintenance staff was not aware of? Just as I was about to pull the curtain back to explore, common sense kicked in (thank all that is good in the world for that!). Pumping! Oh yeah! Ri-i-i-ight! I sheepishly turned back around and walked my ignorant self right out of the bathroom.
Since then, and particulary in the months since I've been pregnant, my mission has been to discover who the Mystery Pumper is. Part of me thought it would be interesting to see what a scientist who pumps looks like; another part of me thought I might try to engage her in discussion about the trials and tribulations of pumping while on the job. I guess really I was just nosy. And annoyed! Every single time the Mystery Pumper was in that back room, she was already in the midst of the process, and no matter how long I took in the bathroom stall, I couldn't seem to wait her out. Even more maddening was being in the stall, hearing the bathroom door open, and seeing the feet of the Mystery Pumper walk past my stall to the curtained area, hearing her pull that curtain closed with a snap. So close, yet so far away! Oh, Mystery Pumper, why have the fates kept us apart??? WHY????????
Until today. Today, I walked into the ladies' room--more like half-ran, half-limped, my belly was stretched so tight with a full bladder and a full uterus--and passed by a friendly-looking woman headed away from the sink with equipment in her hands. We smiled, but I barely had time to notice that she had walked into the adjacent area before I threw myself on the toilet. I realized in that instant that I had just glimpsed--actually, I had smiled at--the Mystery Pumper! While I was already stationed comfortably in proper eradication position, I momentarily hesitated. What if I were to run out of the stall and talk to her? Surely my belly is (kinda) large enough now that she might understand why I would harass her after a pumping session? In that freakish moment, I had a scene carved in my head of her looking fondly and understanding at my belly, putting her hand on my arm, and suggesting we meet for lunch sometime soon to talk pumps. I literally almost had my pants back up, ready to run out of the stall and accost this poor lady when, yet again, my good ole friend Common Sense took hold. At that moment, I heard her leave the bathroom, so it was a lost cause anyway.
So I have a bitter-sweet sense of pleasure, in that I've finally cracked the case of the Mystery Pumper, but I still don't know who she is, or anything about her, or how she finds pumping in the ladies' room of our building. I have always particularly wondered how disconcerting it must be to have to pump when the smells coming from the stalls are not exactly pleasant (I try to do a courtesy flush for her if I am the culprit responsible for the odoriferousness). Mostly, all of this has nothing to do with her, and everything to do with how overwhelmed I feel to have to master yet another skill, just so my kid will be able to eat when I'm away from it. I know, I know, millions of women before me have figured it out; I'm sure I will, too. But for now, there is still some small comfort in remaining a little scared.
Since then, and particulary in the months since I've been pregnant, my mission has been to discover who the Mystery Pumper is. Part of me thought it would be interesting to see what a scientist who pumps looks like; another part of me thought I might try to engage her in discussion about the trials and tribulations of pumping while on the job. I guess really I was just nosy. And annoyed! Every single time the Mystery Pumper was in that back room, she was already in the midst of the process, and no matter how long I took in the bathroom stall, I couldn't seem to wait her out. Even more maddening was being in the stall, hearing the bathroom door open, and seeing the feet of the Mystery Pumper walk past my stall to the curtained area, hearing her pull that curtain closed with a snap. So close, yet so far away! Oh, Mystery Pumper, why have the fates kept us apart??? WHY????????
Until today. Today, I walked into the ladies' room--more like half-ran, half-limped, my belly was stretched so tight with a full bladder and a full uterus--and passed by a friendly-looking woman headed away from the sink with equipment in her hands. We smiled, but I barely had time to notice that she had walked into the adjacent area before I threw myself on the toilet. I realized in that instant that I had just glimpsed--actually, I had smiled at--the Mystery Pumper! While I was already stationed comfortably in proper eradication position, I momentarily hesitated. What if I were to run out of the stall and talk to her? Surely my belly is (kinda) large enough now that she might understand why I would harass her after a pumping session? In that freakish moment, I had a scene carved in my head of her looking fondly and understanding at my belly, putting her hand on my arm, and suggesting we meet for lunch sometime soon to talk pumps. I literally almost had my pants back up, ready to run out of the stall and accost this poor lady when, yet again, my good ole friend Common Sense took hold. At that moment, I heard her leave the bathroom, so it was a lost cause anyway.
So I have a bitter-sweet sense of pleasure, in that I've finally cracked the case of the Mystery Pumper, but I still don't know who she is, or anything about her, or how she finds pumping in the ladies' room of our building. I have always particularly wondered how disconcerting it must be to have to pump when the smells coming from the stalls are not exactly pleasant (I try to do a courtesy flush for her if I am the culprit responsible for the odoriferousness). Mostly, all of this has nothing to do with her, and everything to do with how overwhelmed I feel to have to master yet another skill, just so my kid will be able to eat when I'm away from it. I know, I know, millions of women before me have figured it out; I'm sure I will, too. But for now, there is still some small comfort in remaining a little scared.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Just To Say Something
I didn't really want another day to go by without dropping a few lines on the blog, so what better way to end a Wednesday than to talk politics?
Don't worry, I won't go into any controversy; all I want to say is how happy I am about yesterday's inauguration. I am the first to admit (because I'm sure you all would enthusiastically remind me if I didn't) that I was a Hilary Clinton supporter from the get-go. I really felt that her experience trumped Obama's and I just felt more connected to her. However, I am also willing to admit that the vigor, enthusiasm and collective sense of hope and inspiration that Barack Obama elicits from the people (of this nation, and the people of this world) is just not something Hilary could have done. He truly is an iconic figure.
I hope that the American people will continue to support him through this journey.
YES, WE ALL CAN!
Don't worry, I won't go into any controversy; all I want to say is how happy I am about yesterday's inauguration. I am the first to admit (because I'm sure you all would enthusiastically remind me if I didn't) that I was a Hilary Clinton supporter from the get-go. I really felt that her experience trumped Obama's and I just felt more connected to her. However, I am also willing to admit that the vigor, enthusiasm and collective sense of hope and inspiration that Barack Obama elicits from the people (of this nation, and the people of this world) is just not something Hilary could have done. He truly is an iconic figure.
I hope that the American people will continue to support him through this journey.
YES, WE ALL CAN!
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
A Mittman In The Making
Yesterday evening, I had another appointment with the midwives at the birth center. I spent a good part of the day looking over their website, crying (sobbing, actually) at the birth stories posted by mothers who had previously delivered at the birth center. One story in particular stood out--a couple who found out early on that their child had Trisomy-18, a genetic disorder that results in stillbirth. The couple had planned to deliver at the birthing center, and after deciding not to terminate the pregnancy, chose to continue their care at the center, even knowing that the joy of their child's birth would not be their experience. It was utterly heartbreaking to read the mother's story--going into early labor, hearing her little baby bidding her farewell in utero before passing away, and giving birth to a dead little son. The part that shook me the most was when, in excrutiating emotional and physical pain, all she could utter was "I love the birth center". They were there for her and her husband, giving them space when they needed to grieve, knitting a tiny cap during the labor for the child that would never be, and holding the parents in their hugs and warmth so they'd know there would always be a place for them there. I had to stop reading because I was crying to hard I couldn't look at my coworkers. Instead, I called Adam and cried a little bit more. He held me, albeit over the phone. I really feel like we made the right decision by working with the center.
So, anyway, I went to the appointment at 5pm. I was to give Adam a call once things got underway so that he could listen in and ask any questions that he might have. The midwife Sandra made me a cup of hot tea and then she and Clarice started looking over the homework assignment Adam and I had completed. This consisted of a 10-page questionnaire asking us basic questions, ranging from how we view life to our medical histories (like the fact that we were both over 8 lbs when we were born!) to our perspectives on parenthood. As usual, Adam's answers (ie--"I can't believe my mother delivered a little turkey like me!") elicited laughs from the women; I was just so comfortable and happy to be there, talking about our baby-to-be. After our easy conversation ended, they ushered me into an examination room, where Sandra pressed on my belly to find the margins of my uterus, giggling in the process as she felt Baby Mittman wiggling under her hands. Next, she measured my belly--22 1/2 inches, which is right about right since today I start my 22nd week. Then, they broke out the Doppler so that we could hear the heartbeat. I'm still a little uneasy about these types of machines, as there has been some evidence that the soundwaves from ultrasounds and Dopplers can cause some tissue damage to the fetus. I think at future appointments I'll ask them to use a fetal stethoscope instead. In any case, we could hear the distant beat of the baby's heart almost immediately, but it was continually interrupted by the kicking, punching, and tumbling sounds the baby was making. Clarice's eyes were big as she exclaimed, "You really do have an active one in there!" All I could think that I had a Mittman handball player in the making. Great. I mean, GREAT!
It was only after Clarice put the Doppler away that I remembered I had forgotten to call Adam. I had sunk so easily into the calm of the birth center that ringing him had completely slipped my mind. I called him for the last 5 minutes of the appointment, apologizing the entire time. Luckily he was gracious and forgiving, saying a distant hello to the midwives who shouted greetings his way, and asking for details about the visit. I felt completely absent-minded and awful, but he made me feel better about forgetting. I'm lucky that he's so awesome.
The other, other thing was that they signed me up to start my birthing classes in mid-March. My mother will be here for the second class so she'll come with me, and I look forward to that. Otherwise, I've chosen to go it alone when it comes to the classes. A number of my very sweet and supportive girlfriends have offered to attend them with me, which I really, really appreciate. However, I have found that with Adam being gone, I have no desire to share this experience with anyone other than him (my mum being the only exception). I'd rather go it alone than have someone other than Ads get to be a part of this very private process.
So that's that. Baby Mittman (aka Wee Willie) is strong and forceful, kick-kick-kicking away as I went to bed last night, and back to his/her hijinks again right now, even as I write. I'm really so very excited.
So, anyway, I went to the appointment at 5pm. I was to give Adam a call once things got underway so that he could listen in and ask any questions that he might have. The midwife Sandra made me a cup of hot tea and then she and Clarice started looking over the homework assignment Adam and I had completed. This consisted of a 10-page questionnaire asking us basic questions, ranging from how we view life to our medical histories (like the fact that we were both over 8 lbs when we were born!) to our perspectives on parenthood. As usual, Adam's answers (ie--"I can't believe my mother delivered a little turkey like me!") elicited laughs from the women; I was just so comfortable and happy to be there, talking about our baby-to-be. After our easy conversation ended, they ushered me into an examination room, where Sandra pressed on my belly to find the margins of my uterus, giggling in the process as she felt Baby Mittman wiggling under her hands. Next, she measured my belly--22 1/2 inches, which is right about right since today I start my 22nd week. Then, they broke out the Doppler so that we could hear the heartbeat. I'm still a little uneasy about these types of machines, as there has been some evidence that the soundwaves from ultrasounds and Dopplers can cause some tissue damage to the fetus. I think at future appointments I'll ask them to use a fetal stethoscope instead. In any case, we could hear the distant beat of the baby's heart almost immediately, but it was continually interrupted by the kicking, punching, and tumbling sounds the baby was making. Clarice's eyes were big as she exclaimed, "You really do have an active one in there!" All I could think that I had a Mittman handball player in the making. Great. I mean, GREAT!
It was only after Clarice put the Doppler away that I remembered I had forgotten to call Adam. I had sunk so easily into the calm of the birth center that ringing him had completely slipped my mind. I called him for the last 5 minutes of the appointment, apologizing the entire time. Luckily he was gracious and forgiving, saying a distant hello to the midwives who shouted greetings his way, and asking for details about the visit. I felt completely absent-minded and awful, but he made me feel better about forgetting. I'm lucky that he's so awesome.
The other, other thing was that they signed me up to start my birthing classes in mid-March. My mother will be here for the second class so she'll come with me, and I look forward to that. Otherwise, I've chosen to go it alone when it comes to the classes. A number of my very sweet and supportive girlfriends have offered to attend them with me, which I really, really appreciate. However, I have found that with Adam being gone, I have no desire to share this experience with anyone other than him (my mum being the only exception). I'd rather go it alone than have someone other than Ads get to be a part of this very private process.
So that's that. Baby Mittman (aka Wee Willie) is strong and forceful, kick-kick-kicking away as I went to bed last night, and back to his/her hijinks again right now, even as I write. I'm really so very excited.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Investment Potential
There are a certain number of things that one must never say to a pregnant woman. Of course, amongst the most obvious are:
"Do you know how HUGE you are??"
"Can I touch your belly?"
"You're really starting to waddle now!!"
"You're still here? Shouldn't you have popped by now?"
Then, there are the less obvious things one must not say...or ways to say them.
As I've mentioned before, Adam and I have chosen to move our obstetrical care from the local hospital to a birth center in the area. So, I wasn't altogether surprised to get a phone call at work on Wednesday from a woman identifying herself as being from the hospital's OB/GYN practice. I figured she was calling to give me grief about making the transition. When I confirmed for her that I was indeed Lauren, she said, "Well, I'm calling because I have some test results...<pause>." Okay???? She continued, "But I noticed that you're switching over to the birth center..." Heart plummets past stomach, through feet, into ground.
Was there a problem? The only conditions I'd had my blood tested for were Sickle Cell Anemia, Spina Bifida and Down's Syndrome, ya know, the biggies. From her tone, it seemed as though she was concerned about my leaving hospital care because of the newly acquired test result. I dared to ask. "Was there cause for concern from the test result?" Realization sank into her head. "Oh, NOOO! I just thought that if you're not going to be treated here that it doesn't make sense for us to have your test results! I thought the birth center might want them!" Blood started to pump through my ice-cold veins once more. I managed to fumble out, "Oh! I..I thought you were suggesting that there was a problem and I needed to come in.." She laughed, "No, nothing like that. In fact, the test was fine, I just wanted to make sure it was okay to fax it over to the birth center!"
I gave her the go ahead and quickly hung up the phone. My coworkers were within earshot, so I left the lab to walk downstairs, thinking the whole time how much I wanted to talk to Adam. He was in class, however, and would not have been able to answer. Mum. My mother was off that day and had encouraged me to give her a quick call at some point during the day to say hello. So I called and, after letting her know that everything was fine, I cried. I realized in those moments that I wasn't just crying because I had thought for a split second that the baby was sick, or because I was relieved that it wasn't; I was crying because I finally realized how much I actually cared. Up until this point, I'd convinced myself that I really wasn't very emotionally invested in the pregnancy, other than to make sure I'd done everything I could to do right by the fetus. I'd even gone so far as to tell Adam that if something bad happened, I'd be a little sad but not devastated. "After all," I'd told him, "it's not like we were trying to have a baby." He was pretty shocked when I'd uttered that sentiment, but in my mind I was just being pragmatic, keeping it all in perspective. Things go wrong sometimes, and we need to be prepared for that. I guess I was trying to armour myself against grief and disappointment by feigning nonchalance when it came to the baby.
Wednesday's call changed all that. My mother calmly said, "People in those positions really need to have a little more thought to how they deliver news; I can see why you're so upset." She was right, the woman had been a bit thoughtless; but that's not the reason I was so upset. I was upset because I finally realized that I'd had my first maternal moment--a sincere and real fear for my child's health and safety, and it was overwhelming. Even now, it's a little off-putting to know that I've finally made an emotional investment. Adam sympathized with my story when I told him later that night, but said, "I wouldn't have expected anything different from you, Lady. You always see the dark before the light." I am a half-empty kind of gal, I'll admit. But it really wasn't beyond the realm of sanity to think I was about to get bad news. However, I'm choosing to take this moment and cherish it, because one day I'll be able to tell my kid the very first time I knew I loved it--the very moment I thought I was going to lose it.
"Do you know how HUGE you are??"
"Can I touch your belly?"
"You're really starting to waddle now!!"
"You're still here? Shouldn't you have popped by now?"
Then, there are the less obvious things one must not say...or ways to say them.
As I've mentioned before, Adam and I have chosen to move our obstetrical care from the local hospital to a birth center in the area. So, I wasn't altogether surprised to get a phone call at work on Wednesday from a woman identifying herself as being from the hospital's OB/GYN practice. I figured she was calling to give me grief about making the transition. When I confirmed for her that I was indeed Lauren, she said, "Well, I'm calling because I have some test results...<pause>." Okay???? She continued, "But I noticed that you're switching over to the birth center..." Heart plummets past stomach, through feet, into ground.
Was there a problem? The only conditions I'd had my blood tested for were Sickle Cell Anemia, Spina Bifida and Down's Syndrome, ya know, the biggies. From her tone, it seemed as though she was concerned about my leaving hospital care because of the newly acquired test result. I dared to ask. "Was there cause for concern from the test result?" Realization sank into her head. "Oh, NOOO! I just thought that if you're not going to be treated here that it doesn't make sense for us to have your test results! I thought the birth center might want them!" Blood started to pump through my ice-cold veins once more. I managed to fumble out, "Oh! I..I thought you were suggesting that there was a problem and I needed to come in.." She laughed, "No, nothing like that. In fact, the test was fine, I just wanted to make sure it was okay to fax it over to the birth center!"
I gave her the go ahead and quickly hung up the phone. My coworkers were within earshot, so I left the lab to walk downstairs, thinking the whole time how much I wanted to talk to Adam. He was in class, however, and would not have been able to answer. Mum. My mother was off that day and had encouraged me to give her a quick call at some point during the day to say hello. So I called and, after letting her know that everything was fine, I cried. I realized in those moments that I wasn't just crying because I had thought for a split second that the baby was sick, or because I was relieved that it wasn't; I was crying because I finally realized how much I actually cared. Up until this point, I'd convinced myself that I really wasn't very emotionally invested in the pregnancy, other than to make sure I'd done everything I could to do right by the fetus. I'd even gone so far as to tell Adam that if something bad happened, I'd be a little sad but not devastated. "After all," I'd told him, "it's not like we were trying to have a baby." He was pretty shocked when I'd uttered that sentiment, but in my mind I was just being pragmatic, keeping it all in perspective. Things go wrong sometimes, and we need to be prepared for that. I guess I was trying to armour myself against grief and disappointment by feigning nonchalance when it came to the baby.
Wednesday's call changed all that. My mother calmly said, "People in those positions really need to have a little more thought to how they deliver news; I can see why you're so upset." She was right, the woman had been a bit thoughtless; but that's not the reason I was so upset. I was upset because I finally realized that I'd had my first maternal moment--a sincere and real fear for my child's health and safety, and it was overwhelming. Even now, it's a little off-putting to know that I've finally made an emotional investment. Adam sympathized with my story when I told him later that night, but said, "I wouldn't have expected anything different from you, Lady. You always see the dark before the light." I am a half-empty kind of gal, I'll admit. But it really wasn't beyond the realm of sanity to think I was about to get bad news. However, I'm choosing to take this moment and cherish it, because one day I'll be able to tell my kid the very first time I knew I loved it--the very moment I thought I was going to lose it.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Instinct
I had absolutely no intention of writing about this topic...in fact, I've had two other topics on my mind for the last few days that have been rolling around continuously. One is a typical what's-been-happening-these-last-few-days type story and one is more philosophical. But they will have to wait for now because another topic has entered the fray and I want to talk about it a bit before I lose the thought.
I was just looking at a picture of Shabbi that I posted on Facebook (yes, I have a page there now, so feel free to "friend" me if you are also there). The picture I was looking at was taken in the last year of her life, so she had the far-away look of a dog without all its faculties about it; essentially, she was in the clouded world of dementia. It still makes me sad to see her like that, but in some ways, I'm extremely glad that we held onto her as long as we did. Because throughout her steady downhill regression, she still held onto some very base instincts that to this day surprise the hell outta me.
Just the very idea that she knew to drink water when she was thirsty, and had memory of where her water dish was---was that actual memory or some type of instinctual basis that can't be lost no matter how severe the dementia? Stick food in front of that girl and she would gobble it down, biting your fingers in the process if you didn't move them fast enough, even on her last day. One of Adam's and my favorite stories (well, favorite stories now; he was pretty peeved about it when it actually happened) occurred the day before Shabbi passed away. We were still living out in California, and had a nice, expensive loaf of Cheddar cheese bread that we had bought while visiting San Luis Obispo. I had purposely put the loaf (what I thought was) out of reach of both Shabbi and Kika while I drove Adam to work the next morning. When I got back to the hotel room, I found Shabbi unceremoniously and unabashedly eating the bread, not even stopping with any sense of guilt when I caught her. I knew that the bread loaf had been too far out of Kika's reach, but somehow Shabbi, with her bad legs, incontinent-diaper-clad self, and through her senility, had managed to locate the source of the fine aroma, access it and eat it without guilt. I immediately took it out of her reach, but the loaf was too far gone at that point, so I divided the rest between the two girls and watched, half annoyed and half overjoyed as they finished off the rest. Some type of instinctual desire for food and pleasure was at work there, and even failed sensibilities couldn't trump that.
Shabbi was no longer able to give love or affection to us that last year. Sometimes I doubt she really recognized us, although since we were the hands that fed, she kept us around. But one thing I did notice was her ability to receive tenderness and affection. One of my favorite things to do was roll her on her back, with her head in my lap, all the while stroking her belly and kissing her cheeks. No matter how little she knew or remembered me, she would always be lulled into utter contentment, her eyes rolling back into her head, by this simple act. I convinced myself that it was the one way for us to connect, even though I knew she didn't know me from a hole in the wall. Does this mean that instinct allows us to accept nurturing because we need it, even if we're not in a position to reciprocate?
But to say that she didn't show me affection is probably not a fair statement. While she wasn't able to show it in the same way anymore, I think she showed it in the only way she knew how--by staying alive. Shabbi's existence, while pitiful, never seemed to cause her pain until the very end. By then, Adam had returned and I was no longer on my own. My friend Janice who Shabbs, Kiks and I lived with in Oregon, insists that Shabbi held on so long because she was waiting for Adam to return, not only so she could see him again, but also so she wouldn't leave me alone. If this is at all true, Shabbi's one last final act of love toward Adam and me (and Kika) is one that we will never, never forget.
Even now, more than a year after Shabbi's passing, I continue to be amazed and intrigued by the spirit of her 14 years of life, and by the spirit of her last difficult year. While I look back with sadness over the life that I miss having with me everyday, I know that I will always value every single second--both good and bad--for all that they taught me. Shabbi was not just any dog; she was our very wonderful girl, right until the end.
I was just looking at a picture of Shabbi that I posted on Facebook (yes, I have a page there now, so feel free to "friend" me if you are also there). The picture I was looking at was taken in the last year of her life, so she had the far-away look of a dog without all its faculties about it; essentially, she was in the clouded world of dementia. It still makes me sad to see her like that, but in some ways, I'm extremely glad that we held onto her as long as we did. Because throughout her steady downhill regression, she still held onto some very base instincts that to this day surprise the hell outta me.
Just the very idea that she knew to drink water when she was thirsty, and had memory of where her water dish was---was that actual memory or some type of instinctual basis that can't be lost no matter how severe the dementia? Stick food in front of that girl and she would gobble it down, biting your fingers in the process if you didn't move them fast enough, even on her last day. One of Adam's and my favorite stories (well, favorite stories now; he was pretty peeved about it when it actually happened) occurred the day before Shabbi passed away. We were still living out in California, and had a nice, expensive loaf of Cheddar cheese bread that we had bought while visiting San Luis Obispo. I had purposely put the loaf (what I thought was) out of reach of both Shabbi and Kika while I drove Adam to work the next morning. When I got back to the hotel room, I found Shabbi unceremoniously and unabashedly eating the bread, not even stopping with any sense of guilt when I caught her. I knew that the bread loaf had been too far out of Kika's reach, but somehow Shabbi, with her bad legs, incontinent-diaper-clad self, and through her senility, had managed to locate the source of the fine aroma, access it and eat it without guilt. I immediately took it out of her reach, but the loaf was too far gone at that point, so I divided the rest between the two girls and watched, half annoyed and half overjoyed as they finished off the rest. Some type of instinctual desire for food and pleasure was at work there, and even failed sensibilities couldn't trump that.
Shabbi was no longer able to give love or affection to us that last year. Sometimes I doubt she really recognized us, although since we were the hands that fed, she kept us around. But one thing I did notice was her ability to receive tenderness and affection. One of my favorite things to do was roll her on her back, with her head in my lap, all the while stroking her belly and kissing her cheeks. No matter how little she knew or remembered me, she would always be lulled into utter contentment, her eyes rolling back into her head, by this simple act. I convinced myself that it was the one way for us to connect, even though I knew she didn't know me from a hole in the wall. Does this mean that instinct allows us to accept nurturing because we need it, even if we're not in a position to reciprocate?
But to say that she didn't show me affection is probably not a fair statement. While she wasn't able to show it in the same way anymore, I think she showed it in the only way she knew how--by staying alive. Shabbi's existence, while pitiful, never seemed to cause her pain until the very end. By then, Adam had returned and I was no longer on my own. My friend Janice who Shabbs, Kiks and I lived with in Oregon, insists that Shabbi held on so long because she was waiting for Adam to return, not only so she could see him again, but also so she wouldn't leave me alone. If this is at all true, Shabbi's one last final act of love toward Adam and me (and Kika) is one that we will never, never forget.
Even now, more than a year after Shabbi's passing, I continue to be amazed and intrigued by the spirit of her 14 years of life, and by the spirit of her last difficult year. While I look back with sadness over the life that I miss having with me everyday, I know that I will always value every single second--both good and bad--for all that they taught me. Shabbi was not just any dog; she was our very wonderful girl, right until the end.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Montage
Just some random pix that I've been meaning to post over the last few months...enjoy!
New Year's, Jan '09--The last holiday shot without Baby Mittman
My Mum and I posing with the bambino in utero (~20 weeks along) in front of the Xmas tree
My oldest friend Katie (renakabena.blogspot.com), also 5 months pregnant (with her 3rd child; #1 is wrapped around her legs!). It's been really exciting to be "in this together" with her because she's been generous with the sage pregnant woman's advice. Our other good childhood friend, Heather (laughterbestsound.blogspot.com), is also pregnant!
Judge Rosemary Aquilina swore Adam into the Army JAG corps in October 2008. She was very gracious about the photo opp.
Adam's naval Chief's initiation ceremony in Sept 2008. It was a 20 year dream come true for him to make chief. I was really crampy and sick that night with no explanation. Four days later we'd find out I was pregnant.
The bountiful harvest our vegetable garden provided this summer. The colors were magnificent!
Gregory House doing the cute kitty thing sometime this summer.
This goes way back to January 2007, right before Ads left for Iraq. This is his swearing in ceremony when he became a full-fledged licensed attorney. He left for his Iraq deployment less than a week later.
New Year's, Jan '09--The last holiday shot without Baby Mittman
My Mum and I posing with the bambino in utero (~20 weeks along) in front of the Xmas tree
My oldest friend Katie (renakabena.blogspot.com), also 5 months pregnant (with her 3rd child; #1 is wrapped around her legs!). It's been really exciting to be "in this together" with her because she's been generous with the sage pregnant woman's advice. Our other good childhood friend, Heather (laughterbestsound.blogspot.com), is also pregnant!
Judge Rosemary Aquilina swore Adam into the Army JAG corps in October 2008. She was very gracious about the photo opp.
Adam's naval Chief's initiation ceremony in Sept 2008. It was a 20 year dream come true for him to make chief. I was really crampy and sick that night with no explanation. Four days later we'd find out I was pregnant.
The bountiful harvest our vegetable garden provided this summer. The colors were magnificent!
Gregory House doing the cute kitty thing sometime this summer.
This goes way back to January 2007, right before Ads left for Iraq. This is his swearing in ceremony when he became a full-fledged licensed attorney. He left for his Iraq deployment less than a week later.
Monday, January 5, 2009
When It Rains It Pours
My absence from the blogosphere has nothing to do with travelling, working, being pregnant, or any of the credible excuses that you might have attributed to me (thanks, by the way). No, it really just comes down to good ole fashioned laziness. I've been trying to spend less time doing personal stuff at work, which was pretty much shot to pieces once I created an account on Facebook. However, there is something that screams "personal time" about the blog, so I've been saving it to work on til I get home in the evenings. But the last thing I want to do when I get home is log on to the computer, so instead here I am at work, writing the blog entry for this week.
Let me take you back a bit, give you a little background before I start the story for the day. When my sister and I were just wee girls (around 4 and 5 years old, I suppose), living in Cincinnati, Ohio, one of the things we loved to do most was play with the lazy susan spice rack in my mother's kitchen. The spice rack was floor-level, so curious little hands had easy access to the spinning sensation of spices as they whizzed by. My two favorite containers to pick up were the Clabber Girl Baking Powder and Morton Salt. Clabber Girl Baking Powder had the old-fashioned picture of a girl holding a platter of biscuits or something while her seemingly poor family (note the cute little kitten in there) played on old wooden cartons and boxes in the background. Sad and happy all at the same time. Morton salt had a less interesting picture--just a girl with huge umbrella, walking in the rain while her container of salt spills out from underneath her--but it had a really catchy line next to it: "When it rains, it pours". That was just my favorite. I remember asking my mother what that meant, because of course rain pours, but she knew I was too young to understand the true meaning behind the statement. One of those things one can only fully grasp the significance of upon adulthood; by then you wish you were a naive kid again. This week has called to mind that little phrase, and just the other day I caught sight of a Morton salt shaker, so I had to include the Morton girl in this blog entry.
Sunday, when Adam was driving me to the airport, I realized that I didn't know which airline I was flying home with. I hadn't bothered to print out my flight itenerary because I knew I was leaving on Sunday at 2:30 from Dulles with a carrier that started with a "U". So that left it to either United or US Airways. Once we got to the airport, I nearly broke down in tears at the thought of saying good-bye; since we were more than an hour early, Adam suggested we drive around a bit to have some final moments together before I had to leave. We found a nearby Subway and ordered a quick lunch for me to take on the flight and then hurried back to the airport upon realizing that I now had less than an hour before my flight departed. We hurriedly kissed and bid each other adieu before I walked into the terminal, right up to the US Airways counter. Before I even reached it, a guy decked in a leather bomber jacket, leaning casually up against the counter asked me where I was headed. He seemed to work for the airline, so I told him Chicago. He immediately said, "I can't get ya there, sweetie. Better head over to United." I smiled as I hoofed it the 3 minutes down to the United counter, grateful that it was nearby. I went to the self check-in kiosk and entered my information, only to be told that I was too late to check my luggage (I had a container of Tummy Butter [a pregnant gal's best friend] a friend had gotten me for Xmas that was 3.5 onces--over the 3.2 oz limit by 0.3 oz--and I was not about to throw it away). I had less than 45 minutes to make it to my flight, which meant that the airline had already closed down checked luggage services. Starting to rain... When I inquired, they told me I could either throw away my tummy butter or book a new flight. Well, of course the answer was obvious--stay on my flight, and carry my bag on board with the Tummy Butter. If I've learned anything from Adam over the last ten years, it's not to assume you have to follow the rules until someone tells you to. So I grabbed my boarding pass and walked as fast as I could to security. Since no one asked me if I had any liquids or gels to declare, but I didn't want to be detained by them searching my bag once it passed through the scanner, I decided to quietly ask a TSA agent how to proceed. He asked to see the offending Tummy Butter; he took a quick glance at the 3.5 oz and *almost* rolled his eyes before telling me to just pass it through the bin. I waited with baited breath for the agent behind the scanner to call me on it. I noticed him look up at me while my bag was passing through and I shot him a slightly flirtatious, winning smile. My items came through the scanner without incident. I hurriedly shovelled my feet back into my shoes and got everything together before attempting to hot-foot it to my gate. Well, that meant a 30 minute walk (walk, not run, keeping in mind I had to lug a carry-on, a sandwich, and a belly that I'm not quite accustomed to yet) through the several concourses of the terminal. Raindrops pitter-pattering.... Once I was prety sure I'd gotten to my concourse, I found that instead, I had to board a bus that took me to yet another terminal! The bus was stalled, waiting for the last vestiges of passengers to board, while I got more and more antsy. Once it finally started moving, it came to a stop on the tarmac to make way for an arriving place. Drop, drop, drop... After an eon (30 seconds), the plane moved and the bus made its way to the terminal. I literally pushed some guy out of the way to make sure I could be amongst the first to fly out of the door. Luckily, my gate was the first one on the left coming off the bus, but I was sure they would have already closed the gate but luckily, it was still open. With about 12 minutes to spare, I rushed to the ticket agent and joyfully had her my boarding pass to scan. I was panic stricken and sweaty, but I had made it to my flight, and my Tummy Butter had made it with me. Once I'd sat down and relaxed a bit, I started to feel a bit smug. In fact, I even called Adam to gloat a bit. Light misting...
Had a layover in Chicago. Of course my 2 1/2 hour layover was stretched to 3 1/2 hours because of a flight delay. Is that thunder in the distance?? Jet fumes infiltrated the waiting area near the gate to the point that I, along with several other passengers, had to press my collar to my nose to breathe easily. Boarded, flew, landed safely. Got to airport and called Mrs. G. for a ride home. She came and picked me up and we talked happily on the ride home. I gave her a hug of thanks before heading into my house. I could only wonder the state of Gregory House, as our other next-door neighbor (Lazy Snow Shovelling Man) had offered to take care of him while I was gone. Greg greeted me at the door, howling with self-pity and forlonness. "Why-y-y-y werrrrre you go-o-o-one???" he meowed. I picked him up and hugged him, only to find stickyness all over my hands. I turned on the kitchen light and examined him. My poor, poor kitty who has suffered from skin allergies as long as I've had him, had literally eaten half-dollar sized holes into his skin, ripping out fur and tissue to expose swollen pink underskin. He had dried blood stain all over. Rain I wailed in shock and fright, as he has never looked this bad. I immediately through down my bags, put him in the sink and gave him a bath. There was no way he could walk around like this without risk of infection. He barely struggled as I cleansed his wounds; while he doesn't like water, I like to believe that he knew this was for his own good. I wrapped him in a towel and held him to me as he dried, unbelieving that my little guy could have wreaked such havoc on his little body. Once he'd dried a bit, I decided to go downstairs and check his litterbox, which I had expressly asked the neighbor to scoop at least once while I was gone. Lightning strike...ka-BOOM! The neighbor had not scooped the litter box in the four days that I'd been gone, and Greg House had taken to peeing and pooping outside of the box. Hey, I wouldn't want to "go" on a dirty toilet, either. Since I'm really not supposed to clean the litterbox while pregnant, but have no choice, I've been wearing protection--gloves and a dust mask--while doing the deed. But I was truly appalled by the cleanup I had in front of me. Why couldn't that dude just scoop once when he came over?? We had even supplied a plastic bag for him to put it in! Thing is, he has a cat of his own, so I know he knows how to scoop a litter box. So I donned the gloves and mask and set to work. Greg was so happy I'd finally cleaned out his filty latrine that he happily arched over it to pee and poo once I'd finished. He really is a good cat.
The next evening I came home from work to find that Greg House had done significantly more damage. His wounds were actually oozing congealed blood, all over my throw pillows and smearing onto my futon. I was heartbroken. I rushed to call the vet, but they were already closed so I left a tearful message asking them to fit me in as soon as possible. Something had to be done. The vet tech must have still been there because she called me back immediately to say that I could come in the following evening. The next day, I left work early to pick up Greg House and then head to the vet. He must have known where he was going (he's been enough times in the 6 months we've had him) because he yowled the entire ride there. They immediately took us in to an examining room. The vet, who I like personally, but am a little suspect of professionally, came in. After examining Greg House, he prescribed the same course of action that he's done the last two times--a cortizone shot to immediately stop the itching and then cortizone pills after that. I'd had it at that point. I drop at least $75 everytime I have to take the cat there to get checked out; I didn't want the symptoms treated for the third time, I wanted to know what the underlying illness was. So after several polite suggestions at an allergy test, I finally demanded one. For whatever reason the vet was pussyfooting around administering the test--did he like taking me for my money every month??? After he finally agreed to perform the test--the results would take 2-3 weeks to come back--I got the bill for it: $231. POUR! But what could I do? This cat is my kid, and I've accepted responsibility for him, so I have to try to help him get better. I swallowed and signed to accept the cost of the test. Final bill? $292 (you didn't forget about the price of the visit, did you?).
Well, the cortizone shot hasn't worked much, as he has still been trying to bite his wounds. So, I've had to restrain his head with a styrofoam plate to keep him from licking and biting his body. He hates it but he gets by. I, on the other hand, am just hoping that this storm will pass. A girl can only have so much strength to muster at any given time, ya know. But, and I hope I don't jinx myself, the rain seems to be letting up a bit. Pitter, patter, pitter, patter.
Let me take you back a bit, give you a little background before I start the story for the day. When my sister and I were just wee girls (around 4 and 5 years old, I suppose), living in Cincinnati, Ohio, one of the things we loved to do most was play with the lazy susan spice rack in my mother's kitchen. The spice rack was floor-level, so curious little hands had easy access to the spinning sensation of spices as they whizzed by. My two favorite containers to pick up were the Clabber Girl Baking Powder and Morton Salt. Clabber Girl Baking Powder had the old-fashioned picture of a girl holding a platter of biscuits or something while her seemingly poor family (note the cute little kitten in there) played on old wooden cartons and boxes in the background. Sad and happy all at the same time. Morton salt had a less interesting picture--just a girl with huge umbrella, walking in the rain while her container of salt spills out from underneath her--but it had a really catchy line next to it: "When it rains, it pours". That was just my favorite. I remember asking my mother what that meant, because of course rain pours, but she knew I was too young to understand the true meaning behind the statement. One of those things one can only fully grasp the significance of upon adulthood; by then you wish you were a naive kid again. This week has called to mind that little phrase, and just the other day I caught sight of a Morton salt shaker, so I had to include the Morton girl in this blog entry.
Sunday, when Adam was driving me to the airport, I realized that I didn't know which airline I was flying home with. I hadn't bothered to print out my flight itenerary because I knew I was leaving on Sunday at 2:30 from Dulles with a carrier that started with a "U". So that left it to either United or US Airways. Once we got to the airport, I nearly broke down in tears at the thought of saying good-bye; since we were more than an hour early, Adam suggested we drive around a bit to have some final moments together before I had to leave. We found a nearby Subway and ordered a quick lunch for me to take on the flight and then hurried back to the airport upon realizing that I now had less than an hour before my flight departed. We hurriedly kissed and bid each other adieu before I walked into the terminal, right up to the US Airways counter. Before I even reached it, a guy decked in a leather bomber jacket, leaning casually up against the counter asked me where I was headed. He seemed to work for the airline, so I told him Chicago. He immediately said, "I can't get ya there, sweetie. Better head over to United." I smiled as I hoofed it the 3 minutes down to the United counter, grateful that it was nearby. I went to the self check-in kiosk and entered my information, only to be told that I was too late to check my luggage (I had a container of Tummy Butter [a pregnant gal's best friend] a friend had gotten me for Xmas that was 3.5 onces--over the 3.2 oz limit by 0.3 oz--and I was not about to throw it away). I had less than 45 minutes to make it to my flight, which meant that the airline had already closed down checked luggage services. Starting to rain... When I inquired, they told me I could either throw away my tummy butter or book a new flight. Well, of course the answer was obvious--stay on my flight, and carry my bag on board with the Tummy Butter. If I've learned anything from Adam over the last ten years, it's not to assume you have to follow the rules until someone tells you to. So I grabbed my boarding pass and walked as fast as I could to security. Since no one asked me if I had any liquids or gels to declare, but I didn't want to be detained by them searching my bag once it passed through the scanner, I decided to quietly ask a TSA agent how to proceed. He asked to see the offending Tummy Butter; he took a quick glance at the 3.5 oz and *almost* rolled his eyes before telling me to just pass it through the bin. I waited with baited breath for the agent behind the scanner to call me on it. I noticed him look up at me while my bag was passing through and I shot him a slightly flirtatious, winning smile. My items came through the scanner without incident. I hurriedly shovelled my feet back into my shoes and got everything together before attempting to hot-foot it to my gate. Well, that meant a 30 minute walk (walk, not run, keeping in mind I had to lug a carry-on, a sandwich, and a belly that I'm not quite accustomed to yet) through the several concourses of the terminal. Raindrops pitter-pattering.... Once I was prety sure I'd gotten to my concourse, I found that instead, I had to board a bus that took me to yet another terminal! The bus was stalled, waiting for the last vestiges of passengers to board, while I got more and more antsy. Once it finally started moving, it came to a stop on the tarmac to make way for an arriving place. Drop, drop, drop... After an eon (30 seconds), the plane moved and the bus made its way to the terminal. I literally pushed some guy out of the way to make sure I could be amongst the first to fly out of the door. Luckily, my gate was the first one on the left coming off the bus, but I was sure they would have already closed the gate but luckily, it was still open. With about 12 minutes to spare, I rushed to the ticket agent and joyfully had her my boarding pass to scan. I was panic stricken and sweaty, but I had made it to my flight, and my Tummy Butter had made it with me. Once I'd sat down and relaxed a bit, I started to feel a bit smug. In fact, I even called Adam to gloat a bit. Light misting...
Had a layover in Chicago. Of course my 2 1/2 hour layover was stretched to 3 1/2 hours because of a flight delay. Is that thunder in the distance?? Jet fumes infiltrated the waiting area near the gate to the point that I, along with several other passengers, had to press my collar to my nose to breathe easily. Boarded, flew, landed safely. Got to airport and called Mrs. G. for a ride home. She came and picked me up and we talked happily on the ride home. I gave her a hug of thanks before heading into my house. I could only wonder the state of Gregory House, as our other next-door neighbor (Lazy Snow Shovelling Man) had offered to take care of him while I was gone. Greg greeted me at the door, howling with self-pity and forlonness. "Why-y-y-y werrrrre you go-o-o-one???" he meowed. I picked him up and hugged him, only to find stickyness all over my hands. I turned on the kitchen light and examined him. My poor, poor kitty who has suffered from skin allergies as long as I've had him, had literally eaten half-dollar sized holes into his skin, ripping out fur and tissue to expose swollen pink underskin. He had dried blood stain all over. Rain I wailed in shock and fright, as he has never looked this bad. I immediately through down my bags, put him in the sink and gave him a bath. There was no way he could walk around like this without risk of infection. He barely struggled as I cleansed his wounds; while he doesn't like water, I like to believe that he knew this was for his own good. I wrapped him in a towel and held him to me as he dried, unbelieving that my little guy could have wreaked such havoc on his little body. Once he'd dried a bit, I decided to go downstairs and check his litterbox, which I had expressly asked the neighbor to scoop at least once while I was gone. Lightning strike...ka-BOOM! The neighbor had not scooped the litter box in the four days that I'd been gone, and Greg House had taken to peeing and pooping outside of the box. Hey, I wouldn't want to "go" on a dirty toilet, either. Since I'm really not supposed to clean the litterbox while pregnant, but have no choice, I've been wearing protection--gloves and a dust mask--while doing the deed. But I was truly appalled by the cleanup I had in front of me. Why couldn't that dude just scoop once when he came over?? We had even supplied a plastic bag for him to put it in! Thing is, he has a cat of his own, so I know he knows how to scoop a litter box. So I donned the gloves and mask and set to work. Greg was so happy I'd finally cleaned out his filty latrine that he happily arched over it to pee and poo once I'd finished. He really is a good cat.
The next evening I came home from work to find that Greg House had done significantly more damage. His wounds were actually oozing congealed blood, all over my throw pillows and smearing onto my futon. I was heartbroken. I rushed to call the vet, but they were already closed so I left a tearful message asking them to fit me in as soon as possible. Something had to be done. The vet tech must have still been there because she called me back immediately to say that I could come in the following evening. The next day, I left work early to pick up Greg House and then head to the vet. He must have known where he was going (he's been enough times in the 6 months we've had him) because he yowled the entire ride there. They immediately took us in to an examining room. The vet, who I like personally, but am a little suspect of professionally, came in. After examining Greg House, he prescribed the same course of action that he's done the last two times--a cortizone shot to immediately stop the itching and then cortizone pills after that. I'd had it at that point. I drop at least $75 everytime I have to take the cat there to get checked out; I didn't want the symptoms treated for the third time, I wanted to know what the underlying illness was. So after several polite suggestions at an allergy test, I finally demanded one. For whatever reason the vet was pussyfooting around administering the test--did he like taking me for my money every month??? After he finally agreed to perform the test--the results would take 2-3 weeks to come back--I got the bill for it: $231. POUR! But what could I do? This cat is my kid, and I've accepted responsibility for him, so I have to try to help him get better. I swallowed and signed to accept the cost of the test. Final bill? $292 (you didn't forget about the price of the visit, did you?).
Well, the cortizone shot hasn't worked much, as he has still been trying to bite his wounds. So, I've had to restrain his head with a styrofoam plate to keep him from licking and biting his body. He hates it but he gets by. I, on the other hand, am just hoping that this storm will pass. A girl can only have so much strength to muster at any given time, ya know. But, and I hope I don't jinx myself, the rain seems to be letting up a bit. Pitter, patter, pitter, patter.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Spreading Goodwill
Adam and I shared our New Year's kiss on I-64 in central West Virginia. We decided to take one of our famous "shortcuts" on Hwy 250 diagonally through the state, which was really more like a local road that tacked an additional 2-3 hours to our trip. So, while we could have been warm, relaxed and sloshing sparkling cider in the hotel room at the stroke of midnight, instead we were still travelling down the dark highway, Adam's head turned slightly to receive my kiss, his eyes still on the road in front of him. I thought it was funny; he was pissed. He kept apologizing for deciding to take the "long cut." I figured, whatever time we got in was fine with me, as long as we were having time together.
Yesterday (New Year's Day) we decided to head out and see what stores were open. I had only packed one pair of pants--the maternity pants I've borrowed from a coworker, and the only pair I have for the cold season. So, I asked Ads to take me to the Goodwill here in Charlottesville so I could find another few pairs. I can hardly believe how much better I feel now that I've accepted my belly fate and relented into maternity wear. So I was ready for more; bring it on! I went straight to the limited maternity section of the store and found two pairs of slacks and a dress (priced at $3.50 each) that I figured I could use for any dressier occasions I might need to prepare for. I was pretty pleased with myself for a) finally growing up about it all and breaking down to buy the pants, and b) finding such great thrift--nice pants and a dress for really cheap. Adam and I went to the register to pay, but when I looked at the receipt, I noticed that the cashier had charged me $4.00 for the dress. When I pointed out her error, she called in another employee, who confirmed that all dresses in the store are marked at $4.00. Well, I wasn't about to let anybody screw with me. After all, I'm in my thirties now. So I pointed out to both ladies that the sign specifically indicated that maternity wear is $3.50; there was no indication that maternity dresses are marked differently. The more senior woman tried to argue that a) the dresses, while $4.00, are put in the maternity section for shopper convenience b) all frequent customers at Goodwill know that all dresses there are sold at $4.00, and c) if she charged me $3.50, she'd have to do it for everyone else. I came back with a) I am not a frequent Goodwill shopper, and so I should be able to rely on adequate signage to know how much I'm going to be charged at check-out, b) charging more than what the sign says is akin to false advertising, which is illegal, and c) they could give me my 50 cents and then change their sign so that the real prices are indicated. I should mention that during this entire exchange, which at this point has lasted more than 5 minutes, a HUGE line of customers has assembled behind me. I offered to step aside while the matter was resolved so the other customers could be helped, but the first cashier refused to move on to another transaction until mine was rectified. So the line grew even longer. At this point, the senior employee said that she would refund my money, but when she saw that I'd paid with a credit card, she said she'd have to go talk to the manager. So she left for a back room, leaving Adam, me, a third associate who couldn't believe that they wouldn't refund me the 50 cents or open up a second register, and a line of disgruntled customers. I know it seems silly for me to be fighting over 50 cents, but it was the principle of the matter. What if I'd found 10 dresses that day and had been charged $5.00 more than I was expecting? I thought they needed to change their business practices for the benefit of everyone (and, I must admit, the benefit of me in that particular situation). Adam stood next to me the entire time, stoic and not saying a word. I tried to read his mind--was he pissed that I was wasting so much time over 50 cents or was he proud that I was fighting my own battles? Eventually the senior employee came back, saying that she had called her manager and that the manager was not going to refund my 50 cents. At this point I knew I had lost. Had there not been a line of people behind me I probably would have pressed on, but I decided that enough was enough. Adam and I left, and I said to him, while getting into the car, "Well, Ads, I fought the good fight!" He just looked at me without saying a word.
I realized later that he was trying to decide how he felt about what had happened, and he was finally able to articulate it about 10 minutes after we left the store. He turned to me and said, "You know, I wouldn't have fought over the 50 cents, but what you did back there...well, that was kinda cool..." I was so proud that my litigator husband was proud of my ability to stand up for myself. But of course, I can never just accept a compliment; I had to ruin it by saying, "Yeah, but ya know, the Goodwill is a charitable organization. I really shouldn't have given them such a hard time when they are trying to help the community." His smile of pride fell away into a look of disappointment as he registered what I said. Damn! Why couldn't I have just said "thank you, honey!"???? Later that night, he hugged me to him and said, "You know, Lauren, there are some battles worth fighting in life; fighting with the Goodwill isn't one of them." *Sigh* I had it coming.
In other news, I've decided that I want to start wearing adult pee pads, the ones I put in Kika's dog diaper when I leave her at home for several hours. This whole needing-the-toilet-every-20-minutes just isn't working for me, especially when there is a perfectly good pile of pee pads in Adam's hotel room. When I asked him about it, a look of shock came over his face, and he said in his admonishing monotone, "Go use the bathroom, Lady...". After I finished and came out, he looked at me suspiciously and asked, "Did you use the bathroom or did you put one of those pads on?" I started laughing and assured him that I had indeed used the bathroom, but the idea of pee pad was still really appealing. I have a bunch at home that I could use; after all, he'll be away until April...
So, folks, here is my attempt to spread some goodwill since I totally slammed the Goodwill...Happy New Year!!!
Yesterday (New Year's Day) we decided to head out and see what stores were open. I had only packed one pair of pants--the maternity pants I've borrowed from a coworker, and the only pair I have for the cold season. So, I asked Ads to take me to the Goodwill here in Charlottesville so I could find another few pairs. I can hardly believe how much better I feel now that I've accepted my belly fate and relented into maternity wear. So I was ready for more; bring it on! I went straight to the limited maternity section of the store and found two pairs of slacks and a dress (priced at $3.50 each) that I figured I could use for any dressier occasions I might need to prepare for. I was pretty pleased with myself for a) finally growing up about it all and breaking down to buy the pants, and b) finding such great thrift--nice pants and a dress for really cheap. Adam and I went to the register to pay, but when I looked at the receipt, I noticed that the cashier had charged me $4.00 for the dress. When I pointed out her error, she called in another employee, who confirmed that all dresses in the store are marked at $4.00. Well, I wasn't about to let anybody screw with me. After all, I'm in my thirties now. So I pointed out to both ladies that the sign specifically indicated that maternity wear is $3.50; there was no indication that maternity dresses are marked differently. The more senior woman tried to argue that a) the dresses, while $4.00, are put in the maternity section for shopper convenience b) all frequent customers at Goodwill know that all dresses there are sold at $4.00, and c) if she charged me $3.50, she'd have to do it for everyone else. I came back with a) I am not a frequent Goodwill shopper, and so I should be able to rely on adequate signage to know how much I'm going to be charged at check-out, b) charging more than what the sign says is akin to false advertising, which is illegal, and c) they could give me my 50 cents and then change their sign so that the real prices are indicated. I should mention that during this entire exchange, which at this point has lasted more than 5 minutes, a HUGE line of customers has assembled behind me. I offered to step aside while the matter was resolved so the other customers could be helped, but the first cashier refused to move on to another transaction until mine was rectified. So the line grew even longer. At this point, the senior employee said that she would refund my money, but when she saw that I'd paid with a credit card, she said she'd have to go talk to the manager. So she left for a back room, leaving Adam, me, a third associate who couldn't believe that they wouldn't refund me the 50 cents or open up a second register, and a line of disgruntled customers. I know it seems silly for me to be fighting over 50 cents, but it was the principle of the matter. What if I'd found 10 dresses that day and had been charged $5.00 more than I was expecting? I thought they needed to change their business practices for the benefit of everyone (and, I must admit, the benefit of me in that particular situation). Adam stood next to me the entire time, stoic and not saying a word. I tried to read his mind--was he pissed that I was wasting so much time over 50 cents or was he proud that I was fighting my own battles? Eventually the senior employee came back, saying that she had called her manager and that the manager was not going to refund my 50 cents. At this point I knew I had lost. Had there not been a line of people behind me I probably would have pressed on, but I decided that enough was enough. Adam and I left, and I said to him, while getting into the car, "Well, Ads, I fought the good fight!" He just looked at me without saying a word.
I realized later that he was trying to decide how he felt about what had happened, and he was finally able to articulate it about 10 minutes after we left the store. He turned to me and said, "You know, I wouldn't have fought over the 50 cents, but what you did back there...well, that was kinda cool..." I was so proud that my litigator husband was proud of my ability to stand up for myself. But of course, I can never just accept a compliment; I had to ruin it by saying, "Yeah, but ya know, the Goodwill is a charitable organization. I really shouldn't have given them such a hard time when they are trying to help the community." His smile of pride fell away into a look of disappointment as he registered what I said. Damn! Why couldn't I have just said "thank you, honey!"???? Later that night, he hugged me to him and said, "You know, Lauren, there are some battles worth fighting in life; fighting with the Goodwill isn't one of them." *Sigh* I had it coming.
In other news, I've decided that I want to start wearing adult pee pads, the ones I put in Kika's dog diaper when I leave her at home for several hours. This whole needing-the-toilet-every-20-minutes just isn't working for me, especially when there is a perfectly good pile of pee pads in Adam's hotel room. When I asked him about it, a look of shock came over his face, and he said in his admonishing monotone, "Go use the bathroom, Lady...". After I finished and came out, he looked at me suspiciously and asked, "Did you use the bathroom or did you put one of those pads on?" I started laughing and assured him that I had indeed used the bathroom, but the idea of pee pad was still really appealing. I have a bunch at home that I could use; after all, he'll be away until April...
So, folks, here is my attempt to spread some goodwill since I totally slammed the Goodwill...Happy New Year!!!
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