Sweethearts

I meant to say it at Christmas. I meant to say it on Valentine's Day. I meant to say it all year. I am filled with gratitude. My heart could just burst.

As I wrote in an earlier post, The Ambivalent Parent, I was never sure I wanted to be a parent.

But now that he's here, and as hard as some things have been (with his premature arrival), taking care of Wesley has been my greatest honor, and my most important achievement.

I have everything I could ever want. Anything more is just a bonus.

And, I resolve to write more. I have a lot more to say. Hopefully I still have some readers out there.

The Early Bird

Born @ 27 weeks 5 days gestation
1 lb 15 oz, 12.9 inches long

Wow. Over 3 months have passed since we brought Wesley home from the hospital, and almost 6 months have passed since he was born. Most importantly, he is healthy and doing very well. Honestly, on most days, I feel like a shell-shocked zombie.

I don't mean to sound negative (and if you read all the way through, you'll see I'm talking about gratitude) but I am not going to sugar-coat parenthood as constant bliss, the way so many people do. I am going to be real and honest and up front. I knew going into this it was going to be hard. Turns out, I was in no way prepared for how hard it has been (premature rupture of the membranes at 27 weeks 5 days, emergency helicopter ride and c-section, baby in the NICU for 10 weeks, and all this even before we brought our baby home and began our sleepless nights...)

I feel like I am catapaulting through my days and nights at record speed, a whirlwind of working, expressing breast milk, caring for Wesley, going to doctor appointments, and stealing 1-2 hours of sleep when I can. As fast as this pace feels, parts of my heart and mind are still caught in the days just after Memorial Day, hanging in slow motion, in small spaces where I'm still trying to figure out exactly what hit us.


Going Home from the Hospital,
38 Weeks,
6 lb 1 oz

 After ten weeks in the hospital, Wesley came home two weeks before his due date. He weighed just over 6 pounds and he was so tiny in his car seat that we rolled up blankets and placed them around his head. I sat in the backseat with him and I have never been so nervous. It seemed like every little bump jarred him. I know he was nervous because he sucked vigorously on his pacifier the whole way home. When we got home he was wide-eyed for several hours. Our little baby had never known any world except the hospital, and all its alarms, and constant poking and prodding.

I recently saw a Facebook conversation in which some friends were discussing their kids, and one person said, “the nights are long but the years go by fast.” I know exactly what he meant. Fatigue and sleep deprivation have been the hallmark of our lives for six months now, with probably another two months to go before Wesley is even capable of sleeping a 4-6 hour stretch.

Every night when we’re up every few hours, I wonder, how long we can do this? People always say, “sleep when baby sleeps.” I just smile, but I want to say, will you come over and load my dishwasher and do my laundry, so I can sleep when baby sleeps?! Our lives seem chaotic. Some of our loved ones simply can't survive the shock. Our plants are dying. We've lost a starfish. Our cat died (she was 16 years old and in declining health for a while). We're constantly losing ground against the dirty dishes and laundry. I can tell that it will be years before my house is dusted or deep-cleaned in any fashion! Anything beyond the basics is simply unattainable right now. (And boy, did I yearn to make and can some apple butter this year...)



5 1/2 Months Actual,
13 Weeks Adjusted,
11 lb 15 oz

 Just when we start to make some progress with sleeping, or just when I start to feel like I am "getting it," everything changes. I felt like we were just out of the colic phase and starting to develop some longer sleep cycles, when suddenly baby Wesley is a drooling, fist-sucking mess. We feel a tooth coming in! I don’t think I’ve slept more than 2 hours in several weeks…and my bizarre dreams have returned. I dreamed that a cat named “The Struggle for Profound Thought” was perching on my neck at night, and that a co-worker was placing life-size, color cardboard figures of us around the building.

But every day Wesley does something new. It has been amazing to watch him transform from a tiny, sleepy, tube-fed noodle in an isolette to an active little baby who wants to interact with his environment. It’s like receiving a gift every day. He smiles responsively, laughs, holds his head up, kicks his legs in the air, grabs objects, and has started trying to roll on his side. He is strong and healthy. His vision exams have been normal (preemies are at risk for an eye condition called retinopathy of prematurity). He is strong-willed. And loud, opinioned, and fiesty at times! I guess this is the strength that got him so far. He weighed 1 pound 15 ounces at birth and almost 6 months later (adjusted age: 13 weeks) he weighs 11 pounds 15 ounces.

I meant to write during the 11 weeks I was home with Wesley, and yet, I didn’t often have a free hand, and when I did, I was too tired.

Born @ 27 weeks 5 days gestation,
7 weeks in the NICU,
3 weeks in a Special Care Nursery

I did manage to write a 1500-word essay called “Liquid Gold,” which I adapted from a previous blog entry called Pumping, Pumping, Pumping) and submitted it to Real Simple magazine’s “when did you first understand the meaning of love” essay contest. This essay is about milk! Breast milk, specifically. About my experience expressing breast milk around-the-clock for almost three months, for my tiny baby who was too weak to eat on his own.

(Protecting my milk supply, by the way, is the most important thing I have ever done. If today was my last day, this is the one thing that I would be the most proud of, the one thing I would never change, and I would do it all over again if I had to.)

I think I wrote most of the milk essay in my head, during many hours in the rocking chair nursing Wesley. Then I managed to type most of it one-handed. When Wesley was that little he needed to either be held or fed (or both) virtually all the time. After the essay deadline, fatigue from sleep deprivation set in, and Wesley's colic intensified and didn’t begin to subside until he was about 7 weeks adjusted age. During that time, everything in my life disappeared except for my daily walks with Wesley, and feeding, holding, soothing, and rocking.

I Just Love His Facial Expressions!


During this week of Thanksgiving, I am filled with gratitude. For me, being a parent is at once the best and the most difficult thing ever. Just when I think I don’t have the strength to continue, Wesley smiles or giggles and everything that I’m worried about just recedes into the background. Perspective. I have gained instant, clear perspective, even during complete chaos.

I always think of the phrase, "this too shall pass." Almost as quickly as a really bad day develops, a new, amazing day takes its place. I try to enjoy the present moment, whatever it may be. Just the other day, we were talking about how quickly 6 months have passed, and Chuck said, "To tell you the truth, I don't even remember how it was before we had Wesley." He couldn't have said it any better.

The Italian Gourmet

On October 23rd we had an Italian cooking class with Antonio Cecconi, owner of The Italian Gourmet and author of the Betty Crocker Italian cookbook.

Coordinating this event was a challenging and sometimes frustrating process…we needed to set a date, send out invites, recruit a minimum number of people, gather money, finalize the menu, secure a kitchen in the Minneapolis area, and finalize travel and lodging plans and more. With all the travel and lodging and the fact that we wanted it to be a gift to our friend C, who got married the following weekend, it got to be a bit expensive but IT WAS SO WORTH IT….


My heart sank when Antonio did not show up on time, but fear not, he was only momentarily trapped in the traffic jam surrounding the presidential motorcade that weekend in the Minneapolis area.

When Antonio arrived, we were immediately mesmerized by his warm and friendly personality. In between teaching us how to make our Italian meal (see menu below), he gave us a lesson about capers, showed us pictures from his recent trip to Italy, and graciously answered some rather personal questions from one of us (not me) who had a few too many glasses of wine! AND he signed my Betty Crocker Italian cookbook! He is a fabulous chef and teacher and was a pleasure to work with before and during the class.

As soon as we began making that pasta, mixing the semolina flour with water, kneading the dough into small round yellow balls, and flattening the dough into long thin yellow sheets using the hand-crank pasta machines, I literally felt all the challenges and tensions melt away and everyone was laughing and getting their hands dirty. I hope you can see in the pictures how everyone enjoyed the class.

Our menu:

• Basil Cheese Truffles & Spices

• Crusty Bread with Tomato Basil Topping

• Homemade Lasagna with Asparagus and Tomato Sauce

• Fresh Pasta with Creamy Four Cheese Sauce

• Pork Tenderloin with Lemon Prosciutto Sage Sauce

• Sautéed Field Fennel Salad with Fresh Herb Dressing

• Seasoned Homemade Buns

• Cream Puffs with Amaretto Chocolate Sauce

All of the recipes are in Antonio's cookbook.

Once again I was reminded how therapeutic cooking and good company can be. For those four hours, I was completely in the present moment, totally focused on the task at hand and on taking in every detail and savoring every wonderful taste. I feel so privileged to be able to do things that are so uplifting.

Five Years Later: Part 8

Fourteen weeks after the stroke she comes home, walking with a hemi-cane and an ankle brace, her lifeless left arm in a sling.

Winter is on its way out, leaving an oozy, muddy, rutted-up earth. We sit at the kitchen table, in front of the window. I am in the same chair where she sat on that night almost five months earlier. Framed by the squares of the window pane, the birds outside visit the feeder.

“Dad said I should make sure you know that when I cry, it’s not because I’m sad. It’s because I’m happy,” she says.

I stop chewing for a moment. I look at the bird feeder to see my first Robin of the season.

“You know that, don’t you?” she adds.

It seems like a good place to start. I’ve stopped measuring the future in terms of the past, waiting for myself—and my mother—to re-emerge the same as we had been, as if we’d just returned from vacation or woken up from a dream. We have only just begun to re-define ourselves and our family, one moment at a time. I’ve said goodbye to the familiarity of the past, and accepted the uncertainty of the future.

She starts reading her daily devotions, using a pink index card to help her follow the line. Her hair has grown in around her incision. I glance at her gratitude journal, lying open on the table.

“Our homes are our sanctuary from the world,” she has written. “Our lives are made up of all the little traditions and experiences we share with people. Cherish every moment.”

“Did I sign up for this?” Dad jokes, as he helps her walk to the bathroom. “I’m not sure this was in the contract. It must have been in the fine print.”

“You better make sure you have it in the fine print,” she laughs, turning to look at me.

And I think to myself that we are all in each other’s fine print, neatly inscribed onto lines containing our greatest liabilities. With every patient comes a family, sustained by their community and their faith in the medical professionals to whom they entrust the most precious pieces of their fine print. This is the year I am getting married, and all around me, I see love in fine print.

Five Years Later: Part 1

At about 9 pm on the evening of November 9th, 2005, my phone rang, and, with the events that soon followed, cleaved my reality into a distinct “before” and “after.” It took years to let go of the “before” that our lives were, and years to accept the “after” that our lives became. I still cringe a little when the phone rings late in the evening, reminding me of how unpredictable life is, and how little control we all have. But gradually my fears have given way to gratitude—I give thanks each time that phone rings and I find out my friends and family are still safe and healthy.

In upcoming postings, I plan to reflect on this experience as it unfolded, including everything we struggled with and everything we have to be grateful for. I believe that it is our responsibility—as hard as it is in the heat of the moment—to grow and evolve no matter what challenges come our way. Sometimes writing can help you figure these things out, help you figure out how you feel about things. And as much as I wish I could undo my mom’s suffering, I have accepted the “after” with my whole heart and I am a better person because of it. It seems to me that this is everyone’s journey.

The following is the beginning of a series of excerpts from my essay, “Josie’s Window.”

****

She slumps in a chair at the kitchen table, an invisible weight tugging at her left arm. Behind her, the white borders of the window pane create a checkered backdrop against the evening vista.

“I’m fine,” Mom insists. “The floor was slippery…I couldn’t get back up. Get my crutches so I can go back to bed.” Only the right side of her mouth moves, while saliva dribbles from the left. Her voice is raspy and muffled, like it’s lodged in her throat. Her eyes are only slightly open.

Dad holds out her crutches, but she doesn’t reach for them.

“She has a field cut,” he says, waving his arm in a vertical motion. “She can’t see anything to her left. I think she’s had a stroke.” He starts pacing, picking up the phone and then putting it back on the receiver.

She leans over and vomits on the floor.

I know what he is debating. Twenty miles of country roads to the nearest hospital, an ambulance will take too long. I lean over and hug her tight. I feel a pop and a hiss, as if I’ve punctured an air-tight package—the feel of something brick-hard becoming malleable in my hands.

We ease her toward the back door, her left leg dragging in its black orthopedic boot. She grabs the door frame in protest.

Silver Lining

The last few weeks have been such a whirlwind. I had a rejuvenating vacation with friends in Portland and Sacramento. Upon my return, I started a new job, which (so far) seems to be one of the best decisions I’ve made in a long time. I knew I needed a change, but I didn’t realize how badly I needed this change. I already feel so comfortable and welcome in this new role—everyone has been so supportive and appreciative. It was long overdue.

We celebrated C’s birthday last weekend with a beautiful canoe trip on the St. Croix River between Taylors Falls, Minnesota and Osceola, Wisconsin. On our way home we stumbled onto the most unique sculpture garden. However, our day trip had an unexpected ending. We stood in the ditch and laughed and appreciated the fact that our car died in the most opportune location: right when we got back home, within sight of the VW dealership, which meant it would get towed for free by AAA. You have to appreciate your blessings in every form. Find the silver lining as they say.



Yesterday I saw this: “A big shot is just a little shot that kept on shooting.” – Anonymous

I am trying to keep on shooting. Although I am happy about the changes with my new job, I’m a little down about a few other things. My mom has a bacterial infection in her toe which has been lingering—despite numerous treatments with oral antibiotics—for several months. Yesterday she was admitted to the hospital to begin IV antibiotics. I’ve now received two rejections on the most recent article I sent out to get published. I haven’t heard back from one place but I’m assuming I won’t at this point. The news about our car has gone from bad to worse. It sounds like it may cost more to fix it than the car is worth.

Sometimes it’s hard to understand why things happen. For example, why my mom should have to suffer any more than she already has. Five years ago she had a stroke that resulted in a craniotomy, loss of function in her left arm, weakness in her left leg,  vision problems, and more. When I start thinking this way I have to remind myself what I learned back then. Accept it for what it is…don’t question it or resist it and flounder in “why” and “what if’s” –this will only lead to more suffering.

A Little Patio Project

Busy. Why is the summer so busy? It seems like the winter takes so long, and I wait so patiently for summer, and then the summer just flies by. No time to write!

Last week we completed a project for my 85-year-old grandparents, who live in a condo where they have a 10' x10' patio area to customize however they'd like. The "before" picture below shows that the weeds were getting to be too much to maintain. We filled in the space with patio block. It took a half day to load and then unload about 500 pounds of brick and sand, and a twelve hour day to remove the plants, rocks, extra soil, level and fill in with sand, and lay the bricks.

Who would have thought that revamping such a small space could require so much time and money?! The final cost for supplies was around $450. But they are happy with it, and that is all that matters.

While we were there we got to experience the uniqueness of condo life, as various neighbors visited throughout the process, observing and offering insights (mostly positive, fortunately!). Grandma made a pork roast, cookies, jello, and strawberry shortcake...the weather was beautiful...Although those long hours were very tiring, I think there is something very satisfying about doing challenging, physical work, especially when you know how much it is appreciated.

Before: Too many weeds and too much maintenance required!


In progress: Extra plants removed, filled in with sand and leveled:

Final product: Bricks in, azalea bush boxed in, locking sand applied to the bricks:

Another view of the final product:

My Birthday

My husband presented me with these three vials and I got to play something like a game of deal or no deal. I picked a vial, opened the scroll, which revealed "50% off the bike of your choice." My curiosity got the best of me--as much as I wanted that new bike I decided to trade this in for another vial. I opened the next one and and got a weekend getaway of my choice, including two outfits from Anne Taylor Loft (my favorite). I stuck with this option.

I did get to open the last vial, just to see what it was....a landscaping project of my choice! That would have been a good one too, but I'm glad I stuck with Anne Taylor and the weekend getaway. Ah, he knows me so well.

My mom and dad made "better than sex" cake and Easter dinner and it was wonderful...ham, potatoes...It was the first holiday that I can remember in which our whole family was together and my mom and dad were able to host dinner. It's been almost five years since my mom had a stroke, and things are still settling in to the new normal. In the following picture with my mom, taken this past Easter, I'm wearing the "rabbit ears" that I was given on Good Friday in the hospital, just after I was born.

Truck

I was filled with gratitude after reading Truck, by Michael Perry. I loved all these things…the cultivation of seedlings in the middle of winter, the preparation of whole foods, straight from the garden in the summer, the restoration of a 1951 International Harvester, falling in love with a woman and her child, the wedding and Perry finally coming to terms with what marriage and commitment mean to him. It is beautiful and real and I am warm and glowing with the simple abundance of what it means to make your way in this life.

I have read all of his other books, and I think what I like most about Perry is that he forces me to challenge my own stereotypes about things like hunting, gun ownership, small town folks, big city folks, and more. One moment my red flags are going off, saying, oh boy, this rant about gun rights is starting to betray you as a social conservative, and the next minute he is describing, in the same beautiful terms used for heterosexual couples, the love between gay couples he knows, and denouncing that anyone be deprived of their partner’s health insurance or rights to hospital visits.

And it is here where Perry works most strongly on me, in a theme that runs throughout his work: Be careful! We are human and complicated and our tendency to label and categorize each other into one camp or another is at best oversimplification, and at worst, just plain dangerous. And if you fall prey to stereotypes and rigid beliefs about people, you are really missing the mark in this life.