Six Grams of Cancer

 My thyroglobulin levels are elevated, 6.2ng/ml. I don't even know what ng is. Nanograms? What I do know is that for someone who recently had a total thyroidectomy, my levels should be close to zero. And they are not. I read that anything above 5ng/ml indicates recurrent cancer. I also read that every 1ng translates to roughly 1g of thyroid (or thyroid cancer) tissue. If you round down, that's 6g. Six grams of cancer. I am sure this is not medically accurate. But in my mind I see the little brass weights we used on balance scales in science class. Small but also not insignificant. Especially significant if those 6g are located elsewhere in my body. Metastasic. The blood test can't tell us where they are living, only that they are somewhere inside me.

What does this mean? It means more treatment, more worry. More sickness, more missed work. More risks, more long-term side effects. More disruption to my life, and the lives of those around me. More of all the things I don't want at all. More, but I hope not too much. 

Six grams of cancer. None of this seems real. In two months more tests, more blood work, more decisions. Until then, I will try not to think about it.

Can I get a little help here??

Every person has a breaking point.  Today the thing that broke me was a squeaky faucet handle.  It gets worse.  It started with a squeaky faucet handle, and culminated with a bathroom geyser and broken glass everywhere.  Let me explain.

For a couple of years now, my bathroom faucet handle has made a horrible squeaky screech every time I use the sink.  The same with two of the other faucets in the house.  I asked my husband for help with this a year or more ago.  He squirted a little WD-40 into the handle, which didn't fix it, declared it un-fixable and went on with his life.  Meanwhile, the squeak got worse. And worse.  Especially at 2:00 a.m., when the house is silent and I'm trying to use the bathroom and not disturb anyone.  I have asked for help with this several times over the last year and my husband has either tuned me out or forgotten.  His sink doesn't squeak, so it isn't a problem for him.  I asked for help again today and again he blew me off.  Here is an excerpt of my texts to my friend, Peggy, during this time period:         
              
Me:      I asked him for help with my bathroom                    
             faucet problem and his help is he's                         
            making himself a second breakfast.

Peggy:  As all good hobbits do.                                           

Me:     Then he dragged his food upstairs and                         
            left a trail of crumbs in the kitchen                         
            THAT I HAD JUST CLEANED. 

Peggy:  Seems like he needs some kind of
            reinforcing message that he may be
            taking you for granted.    
                  
Me:     I think only my death would reinforce                         
            that. He did fold a little laundry,                                                               
            so that was nice.                        
Me:    I once read a story in Reader's Digest                    
           about a woman whose husband had died                         
          recently. She called her son to come help                         
          her because she said her toilet was broken.                         
          It was all dirty inside the bowl, which had                         
          never happened in her 50+ years of                    
          marriage. It turns out that her husband                        
          had been cleaning the toilet all of those                         
          years and she didn't realize it. Once he was                         
          gone, the toilet stopped getting cleaned. She                            
          had no idea toilets got dirty. That's me.
          I'm that husband, doing things to keep the                    
          house running that no one notices or realizes. 

I include these texts because they help explain where I was mentally and why I was at the end of my rope this morning.  I was feeling a little unappreciated and a lot martyr-ish and my patience was razor thin.  So I decided I would fix the damn faucet myself.  In retrospect, this was probably not the best time to embark on a home improvement project, especially alone.  But I'd had two cups of coffee and I felt like that lady in the We Can Do It! poster, only I was more pissed off and less inspired than the woman flexing her bicep.  I don't even own a headscarf.  Nevertheless, I persisted.

I found the right-sized allen wrench and spray lubricant in the garage, took the faucet handle off, sprayed in the grease, and turned the faucet on and off a bunch of times to distribute the grease--but it was still squeaky.  I looked it up on the internet, which told me to do exactly what I had already done.  I kept reading articles, and I realized I needed to get lubricant inside a certain piece.  But then I couldn't get that piece off, so I was forced to ask my husband for assistance AGAIN. This time he helped, and I went to put the next batch of clothes in the dryer.  When I came back, he told me he had to turn the water valve off under the sink because water started spraying out of the top of the faucet when he tried to take that particular piece off.  Cool. Noted.  Now get out of my way.  (I didn't actually say any of that, but I thought it.)  I put lubricant in the part I previously couldn't get to, put everything back together...and the squeak was gone! Victory! Yay, me! I did it! I was so confident I decided I'd fix the other two squeaky handles in the other two bathrooms.  I had my husband help with the second sink, and again I fixed the squeak! Yay!  And then I decided I could do the last sink by myself.

For reasons I cannot explain, I thought I was special and that I could get the handle all taken apart without the water shooting out, and so I did not turn off the water supply under the sink.  This was a mistake.  Because when I tried to remove the last piece, a geyser opened up and flooded the bathroom quite dramatically. I called for help and put the hand towel over said geyser, but not before I had sprayed every wall, piece of wall art, the ceiling, light fixture, mirror, counter, floor, myself, etc.   My husband ran downstairs and turned off the water supply for me. He was very unhappy with situation (and/or possibly less than thrilled with me) and angrily started trying to mop up the floor with one of the towels.  I, soaked through to the skin and dripping, told him I would deal with the cleanup and asked him to go, because it was my mess.  I was not phased and was kind of amused.  I mean, this is not something you see every day, water dripping down all four bathroom walls with my bedraggled, wet-dog self reflecting through the drips on the mirror.  Plus, it could have been so much worse, I figured!  I had gotten off easy, in the grand scheme of things.  I towel-mopped the floor, wiped down the dripping walls and threw a towel at the ceiling over and over to get all of the drips there.  I dried off the art work and soap pump and set everything in the dining room to dry.  And then I went back to my new nemesis--that bastard, the faucet.

There's a little rubber gasket that shot out with the geyser, and it was a real pain to get it back inside the inner workings of the handle. My husband had a hard time with it on the first faucet, so it was not a surprise I couldn't get it on right either.  I kept testing it and turning on the water valve just a hair, and that stupid thing kept leaking.  FINALLY I got all of the pieces back together, but I didn't tighten the allen screw on the handle just in case I still didn't have it on correctly.  This was my next mistake.  Because when I turned on the water valve ever so slightly, it turned into Old Faithful again and the faucet handle shot straight in the air.  It hit the vanity light above, which exploded into glass shards all over the bathroom.  There was even a little smoke, for dramatic effect, I guess.  I quickly turned the valve off, but once again the mirror, light fixture and ceiling--all of which I had JUST finished drying off, mind you--were covered with water, and now there was also broken glass everywhere.  At this point, I waved the white flag and asked my husband to help yet again.  I may be stubborn and foolish, but I am not totally stubborn and foolish.  I told him I just wanted it done and I thought I could do it myself and I was wrong. So wrong.  And I cried. A lot.  My kids were wandering in and out of the situation, not sure what to make of the flood, or of me.  My son retreated for safer parts.  My daughter kept trying to comfort me, telling me it wasn't that bad and hugging me. 

The good news is, my husband felt so bad for me that he couldn't be angry anymore, and he got the faucet handle back together while I cleaned up broken glass.  He also helped dry off everything.  Again.  A raw potato helped get the broken light bulb out of the socket (a tip I read years ago that really works!).  The bathroom is probably cleaner now than it has been since we bought the house.  And, let's not forget, all of the faucet handles are now squeak-free! 

The moral of the story is twofold.  First, sometimes it's better to work together.  And don't start a project when you are fed up and little bit crazy.  My husband probably thinks I am more than a little bit crazy, but he also probably (maybe) would acknowledge that he played a part in pushing me over the edge.  Sidenote: If someone asks you for help and you blow them off, you might end up with a flooded bathroom covered in glass shards.  So be a good helper.  The second moral of the story is, if you are attempting a faucet repair, turn off the water valve first.  

We can do it!
Unless we can't.
In which case, please help us. 
The first time we ask. 

 

 
    

 

My father's shadow

The story goes that my parents thought I was going to be a boy, something about how strong I kicked or my heart rate. My name was going to be Jason--Jay's son. I was born with red hair and blue eyes, just like my dad. But I wasn't a Jason. No matter. I still wanted to be just like him. 

I was my father's shadow. I thought he could do anything, build anything, fix anything. I remember at about age 4 being very angry with my mom because I wanted to marry him and she said he was already taken. Can you imagine?! How insensitive of her! ;) Instead, I grew up and married a Jason, who became a son to him. And Jason shadowed my dad, learning wiring and plumbing and patience. And then we had two kids who would squish into my dad's recliner like I used to and shadow him around the house. They would watch him in his workshop, help him fill the backyard bird feeders or fly kites at the beach with him. 

We are all so lucky he was ours to shadow. 

.. .-.. --- ...- . -.-- --- ..- -.. .- -..

(I love you, dad)

 

The Notebook is a Lie

I knew Alzheimer's meant losing your memory.  I knew there would come a day when my dad would stop recognizing me, and I knew that would be a knife in the heart, but I was mentally prepared for it.  What I didn't know is that I would stop recognizing my dad.

In The Notebook, Allie is in a memory care center, and she doesn't recognize her own husband anymore.  That much is true-to-life.  But Allie still looks beautiful and put together--like herself.  In reality, Alzheimer's causes physical changes along with the mental ones, and the younger a person is when he is diagnosed, the more rapidly the disease progresses.  I learned this the hard way.  Long before my dad got to the point we could no longer care for him at home, he stopped looking like himself.  He rapidly lost weight; his clothes hung off him.  His motor skills started to deteriorate, so he sometimes had food stains on his clothing, or his face.  The glasses he had needed almost his entire life suddenly started to bother him, so he would remove them (and often lose them, another common problem, misplacing things).  He didn't look like my dad anymore, and I didn't know to expect that.  It was hard to see.

Harder than watching the physical changes was standing by helplessly watching his mind being taken away from him.  I remember being at my parents' house the year after my dad was diagnosed, and he asked me to help him with something on his computer.  My dad had built this computer, and dozens of other computers over the years, but he couldn't remember how to increase the font size to print a shipping label.  I told him and showed him and wrote it down in case he needed to to do it again.  He was thankful for my help, but so upset with himself.  He said to me, clearly frustrated, "Everything I touch turns to shit."  He seemed so dejected, someone who had been able to solve difficult technical problems in a blink and now couldn't remember how to use a simple word processing program.  It hurt my heart and I just wanted to make him feel better.  I assured him that no, things were not that bad, and we moved on to something else.

Later after he'd gone to bed, I relayed the story to my mom, and that I'd reassured him he was okay.  My mom shook her head sadly and told me things were indeed that bad.  My dad would try to do something on his computer and end up moving programs around and deleting shortcuts and making a mess of things.  One of his friends, who my dad had helped with computer problems numerous times in years past, would come over and get everything set up right again. Then my dad would try to use the computer again and the cycle would repeat.  For someone who had always been so incredibly sharp mentally, this must have been excruciating.  And there was nothing we could to do help.

In The Notebook, not only does Allie still look beautiful, she has moments of clarity where her memory suddenly comes back (when Noah is reading her their story) and she recognizes her husband.  All is right with the world, if only for a moment.  When my dad was first moved to memory care, he still knew me, or at least knew I was a friendly face. We were asked not to visit the care center for the first week or so, to allow him time to get adjusted. When we were finally able to see him, he was amazed when my family came walking through the door. His eyes got wide and he said, baffled, "How did you find me here?!" I told him we were keeping track of him. He said, shaking his head, "I know--probably a bunch of gabby women." I kept a straight face then, but later when I told the story to my mom, we laughed and laughed.  It was funny, but more than that, it sounded like something my dad would really say.  It was one of the last times I remember him sounding like himself.

As time went on, it was clear my dad no longer knew who I was.  He would still smile and be polite, let me sit with him and ramble on about my kids or school, or sit next to him and watch TV. But I had become a stranger to him.  I wanted SO BADLY for my dad to have one of those flashes of recognition, to suddenly sit up and look me in the eye and say, "Melissa? Is that you?"  I could just see it in my mind's eye.  My eyes would fill with tears and I'd hug him and I'd have my dad back, if only for a moment.  It happened in The Notebook, so maybe it would happen for me.  I'd sit and talk to him for hours, show him photos of us, of himself, but there was nothing.  NOTHING.  Not even a spark.  The Notebook lied to me.  One of my dad's pat sayings the last few years was, "I don't recall that."  It was his polite way of saying that particular memory was gone, along with so many others, and he really had no idea what or who we were talking about. Pretty soon, what he remembered was almost nonexistent in comparison to what he didn't "recall."  We were losing him. 

Despite this, I kept trying to comfort him by bringing him glimpses of his former life.  My husband made me a CD of the music I remember my dad listening to when I was a child, groups like The Cars, The Pointer Sisters, KC and the Sunshine Band. I'd put it on and sit with him, or turn it on for him when I was leaving the care center for the night.  I found videos on YouTube of ham radio field days.  I would sit next to him on his bed and turn up the volume on my phone and we would both listen to the sounds of my childhood, the da-da-dit-dit-dit sound of Morse code, the call signs, the radio static.  I found videos of ham shack tours, men that looked and sounded so much like my dad it took my breath away, and I played those, too.  I played him the sound of the teletype over and over. I found reviews of handheld ham radios and played those.  I played anything I could think of that he might remember.  Never once was there even a glimmer of recognition. Not ONCE.  But I hoped that even if he didn't understand what he was hearing, there was a part of his mind that did, and that it dulled the pain and calmed him.  I think I also did it for selfish reasons; it made me feel less helpless.

In the library where I work, there is, for reasons I cannot explain, a skeleton who is dressed up for different holidays and events, Dewey.  Last month the plan was to put Dewey in the rocking chair, sitting by a (paper) fire, reading cozily.  Someone sent in pajamas for him to wear so he could be extra comfy-looking.  One of my coworkers got Dewey all dressed and then I helped to position him in front of the fire. When I touched Dewey's skeleton legs in the donated pajamas, all of the wind was knocked out of me and I dropped to my knees.  It was just like trying to help adjust my dad in his hospital bed.  He was skeletal those last few months.  There was nothing left of him, inside or outside.  Allie in The Notebook was still full and healthy-looking.  My dad looked more like a concentration camp victim.  Once again, The Notebook lied to me.

At first, I was bitter about this, and angry with Nicholas Sparks for misleading me.  How dare he?!  How many people have been disillusioned because of this story?  The nerve!  But I have come to realize that his book, and the subsequent movie, were a blessing. The idea that one day my dad might have a flash of recognition, might see my face and remember who I am, gave me hope. So I never stopped visiting.  I never stopped talking to him, playing him music, trying to find him new videos to watch.  In fact, I was with him the night he died, playing ham radio videos and holding his hand.  In that regard, The Notebook was truthful.  We never gave up on my dad.  And just like Noah was there until the end, so were we.  Those difficult days and hours the last few months were made that much less painful because at least we were together.  That is how it was for Noah.  Nicholas Sparks got that part exactly right.  I never stopped loving my dad. And I never will.

My dad gripping my hand with both of his one of our last nights together.

What I didn't know about Alzheimer's

I knew it robs you of your memory. 

I didn't know it robs you of your strength.

I knew it steals your personality. 

I didn't know it steals your dignity.

I knew it destroys your brain. 

I didn't know it destroys your body.

I knew it leaves you without the power to speak. 

I didn't know it leaves your family powerless.

I knew there wouldn't be much I could do to help.
I didn't know it would make me feel so helpless.

I knew it would be hard to watch my dad succumb to it. 

I didn't know how hard.

It's My Turn

I show up to my parents' house to stay with my dad while my mom has her monthly support group meeting. She meets me at the door.  "You just missed the biggest mess ever.  You're going to need to help your dad finish getting dressed.  Don't worry, he's decent.  I left him putting on his socks."  I go into the bedroom.  My dad is on the edge of the bed with one sock on and no pants.  "Where's your other sock?"  He stares blankly.  "Can't be too far."  We look around, see no evidence of the missing sock.  "Maybe they're both on the same foot!"  Sure enough, he put one sock right over the other.  I take it off and put it on the other foot, then I put his feet through his pant legs.  "Okay, you gotta stand up so we can get your pants on."  My dad slowly rises and pulls his pants up to his waist.  I wait for a moment to see if he can manage the button and zipper, then I do it for him.  It's like dressing one of my children when they were toddlers, except it's my father.  I swallow the lump in my throat, put a smile on my face and lead him to the living room.

We watch TV for a little while, the only activity my dad is able to do, then I tell him we are going to go on an adventure to the bank and Starbucks.  I find his shoes and slip them on his feet and tell him it's time to go.  He looks at me blankly and doesn't move.  "Okay, we're going to head to the bank and then go get a treat at Starbucks!"  I say brightly.  Still nothing.  Finally I give his hands a tug and he stands up.  "It's not that cold out so you don't need a big coat, but we'll get you a jacket."  I put my dad's arms into his coat; he is only slightly more helpful than a mannequin would be, but I get him covered.

We head out to my car and I narrate along the way to fill the silence.  "Oh, look! The cherry trees are just starting to bloom. There goes another dump truck to that area they are clearing."  I open the door and my dad slowly, awkwardly folds himself into the car seat.  I lean over and do his seatbelt for him.  A month ago, he was able to buckle the seatbelt himself; now it is beyond him.  I provide a commentary as we drive to town.  My dad never says a word.

We arrive at the bank and I get him settled in a chair.  When my name is called, the bank employee sees me getting my dad and gets an extra chair ready for him at the desk.  In the few minutes we are there, my dad falls asleep sitting up.  When I am done, I joke, "Uh oh, I bored you to sleep!  Ready to go to Starbucks?"  The bank employee laughs and comments my dad can clearly use a caffeinated pick-me-up.  I smile at his joke, knowing there is no drink, no food, no anything that will help my dad anymore.

I carefully, slowly walk my dad back to the car and buckle him in again.  We arrive at the coffee shop and I hold his arm as we walk, reminding him to step up here, step down there. He doesn't see curbs anymore and I am always so afraid he is going to fall.  At one point he stumbles but catches himself.  He says, in his familiar voice, "I have a bad habit of forgetting to pick my feet up."  It's the first time he's spoken to me all day.

We get inside Starbucks and I list off his food and drink choices.  "There's cookies, donuts, or maybe you'd rather have a milkshake."  He doesn't respond. I try again.  He opens his mouth and tries to speak but the words won't come.  I rescue him.  "How about I surprise you?"  I order our drinks.

We sit quietly, my dad contentedly sipping his Frappuccino.  I fill the silence with more commentary.  I am struck by the fact that my father is now so much like my child.  I dress him, chatter to him, drag him on errands then reward him with a treat.  And I don't mind.  He spent half of his life caring for me.  It's my turn.

The last best day

Monday, January 7th was the kids' first day back at school after more than two weeks off.  My plan was to come home and bring the cat back to bed with me for an hour or so before I started cleaning the kitchen.  At our other house, he used to come to bed with me every morning after Jason got up, but that had not happened since we moved, and also happened less after he got arthritis.  I think the stairs at the new house didn't help, but it is also a pretty big jump to the bed, especially for a cat who may have been having heart problems.  So sometimes I'd carry him up to bed after he stopped coming on his own.  Several times I had brought Niles to bed like that, but he'd usually only stay an hour or less.  But this Monday morning, he stayed with me until it was time to get Bryce from the bus stop at noon, almost three hours, and I am pretty sure he would have stayed a lot longer.  He laid right next to me while I read and napped.  Just before I had to get up, I started petting him again and he rolled over and stuck his feet in the air so I could pet his fluffy belly.  (My mom has always said Niles has the softest fur of any cat she's ever known, and I think she was right.  Bryce would pet him and say, "He is soft as silk."  It was hard to walk by him and not stop to pet him, I think.)  It was pretty much my ideal morning, especially after two weeks of semi-chaos with the kids home.  I really wished I could stay there petting him all day, but I finally got up.  I carried him back downstairs and got him his lunch and then went to get Bryce.

The next day, I volunteered at school all morning.  Wednesday I used my morning to work out.  Thursday I was back at school to volunteer, so no cat snuggling time.  And Friday was when Niles really slowed down, slept all day under a chair and I didn't bother him.  Saturday I brought him up to our bed again, and he slept there most of the day, but not close to me like he had on Monday.  He crawled under the comforter and slept there, and I remember watching it move up and down to check if he was still breathing.  Sunday he slept most of the day and ate very little.  Hayden took her blanket and a bag of books and laid down by him in his current favorite spot, the corner between the couch and end table.  Monday the 14th was the beginning of the end.  I keep going back to Monday the 7th, before we knew something was wrong, when Niles still seemed to be happy and healthy.  It was the last best day.

Breaking

My heart is not broken.  It is breaking over and over and over again.  Every time I hear a click or tap and look over, thinking Niles is walking by.  Every time I see his empty food bowl.  Every time I notice just how empty the house is when I am here alone.  His favorite spot on the corner of the couch.  I used to joke that Niles' job was to pretty up the place, just sitting there looking charming.  And he did.  I smiled every time I would look over and see him sleeping.  There is something so peaceful about a cat curled up on the couch.  Nothing says "home" like a sleeping cat, purring even in his sleep.  Memories of Niles are everywhere.  Thinking of Bryce's toy cat collection (he has four different Niles cats in it).  Niles sleeping on Hayden's bed at night, or sleeping amongst her stuffed animals during the day and blending right in.  Niles responding with a meow when one of us said his name.  Memories everywhere, but Niles nowhere.  Tears everywhere.

In the morning

I am not a morning person. Never have been, not sure I ever will be. At least by choice. But quite often lately I am a morning person because my son forces me to be one. It gives me time alone with him, which is nice. And we see all sorts of things I'd miss if I were asleep. For instance this morning he spotted a hummingbird on the fuschia plant, the first we've seen in weeks. And we saw dozens of tiny birds (finches?) flying in waves from one tree to another, cheerfully twittering as they flew. We also got to see "our" squirrels out busily gathering food and I chased off a rogue cat who was harassing one squirrel. If I hadn't been awake, that rotten cat might have gotten dangerously close to our little puffy-tailed buddy.

Or worse, far worse, the idiotic blue jays woke me up AGAIN far earlier than my boy did. I went outside in my pajamas to chase them off the roof and got to feel the cool morning mist on my skin. After the days and days of dryness we've had, the feeling was almost indescribable. While I cannot be grateful to those idiotic birds for disturbing my rest, I am grateful for the coolness I felt.

I keep reading about the benefits of meditation and most of the examples I've read, the person meditates in the morning, before the rest of the house is awake. That is also a good time to exercise, to get it done and out of the way. But I still can't bring myself to set an alarm and get up any earlier than my kid alarm goes off. Often that is too early for me! Maybe someday. I wonder, though, if being up early, paying attention to nature, training my eyes to new flower buds and my ears to squirrels jumping from branch to branch or the birds making music in the trees, maybe that is almost like meditation. Turning off the endlessly looping to-do list in my head and tuning into the world around me. For now, it is as close to meditation as I am going to get.

Pears

While picking through a big box of red pears the other day, being critical of bruises and dents, all of the sudden I was back at my grandparents' yard, standing under a pear tree with my grandfather. The ground was littered with fallen pears, which I carefully stepped around as I tried to find a nice pear in the tree. My grandpa picked up one of the pears from the ground, pulled out his knife and cut away the damaged spots. He said those ones were more ripe and would taste better, despite the bruises. I was skeptical, and picky, but I tried one. He was right. It was sweet and juicy and tasted like Indian Summer.

Grandpa grew up in a time when you couldn't afford to be picky. And it was in his nature not to waste things. I was very spoiled growing up in that I could be picky, and often was. But I also knew the value of a dollar and used to clip coupons for my mom (who still doesn't use coupons). And somewhere in adulthood I began to feel very guilty about wasting "good" food and making a conscious effort not to. Just because something is a little bruised or mushy doesn't mean it still can't be useful.

But back to the pears. I feel like there is a bigger metaphor in there. How many times have I overlooked something or someone because it was damaged? What am I missing out on by being picky? I have a soft spot for clearance plants, just can't stand to think of them being tossed in the trash because they are a little wilted or scrawny. So I find them a home in my garden and most of the time they thrive. What else should I be giving a second look? How much better could the world be if everyone took a second look at a bruised pear, a wilted flower, a person who is in shabby clothes? There is so much untapped worth out there.

What happened to me?

When I had just one kid I got so much more done. I'd put her to bed and then get started on the next remodeling project. Now there is so much to do and so little getting done. I know how to break a task into parts so it isn't overwhelming, yet I instead of doing one bit at a time I am doing nothing. Nothing. Well, not nothing, but nothing to further my projects, such as painting the bathroom. Instead I am doing household things or playing with the kids or wasting time on the computer. I could take a hiatus from the internet (but not email, because I am responsible for certain tasks and also email is sometimes my lifeline to the outside world). I have done this before, but I don't think I got more done. And then I end up feeling resentful, like a child who's told she can't play until she does her chores, and I still don't end up accomplishing much.

Why? That is what I am trying to figure out. Why not? Certainly I am more tired with two kids. I think that is legitimately part of it. But I also seem to care less in general. I don't care about my appearance as much as a used to. I haven't been to the gym in 2.5 years (the same time since my youngest was born). I don't care as much about the state of my house, either. Although that sometimes backfires and I become very stressed out by the disorder. My house is never that bad, but it certainly is not what it used to be.

So why do I care less? Is there something I care more about that is taking over? My kids, of course. But it seems like I should be able to do both. Not do it all, but do more than I am currently doing. Then I worry, what if my lack of motivation is related to depression? That worries me. I don't know the answer to any of these questions but, though I try to push it out of my mind and just get through the day, the what ifs worry me.

For better or worse

I am very discouraged and unmotivated right now and feel like I could cry. There is nothing major wrong, but life is disorganized and I don't see it getting more organized anytime soon. I have so much to do but I am lacking both time and energy. Whatever energy I had a month ago when I was getting a lot accomplished outside is GONE. So I am searching for inspiration, but halfheartedly. I really would just like to sleep. Yet I keep staying up late working on the computer (some on valid projects, some just wasting time). It goes back to the problem of knowing what I need to do, yet still not doing it.

So anyway, I am essentially feeling sorry for myself today. Then I find out about a friend with a sick child and remember problems other people are dealing with and feel like I should be happy things are not worse. But you know what? I am realizing that telling yourself things could be worse doesn't always make things better. At least, it is not making me feel better today. It just makes me feel selfish and whiny for being sorry for my small problems, not grateful I don't have bigger problems.

How to fix this? I don't know, but I damn well better figure it out soon.

Just breathe

Today my baby girl had her first day of kindergarten. Her first day of school (not counting the 3 years of preschool, mind you). The first day of the rest of her life. Or at least her life for the next 13 years. She was excited and I knew she would do well. I wasn't sure if I would do well, however.

When we got to school I could see cars parked all the way out to the street, in the grass and pretty much everywhere I looked. Fortunately, at the time we got there cars were beginning to leave and we were able to find a spot right away. Unfortunately, right at that time began a total downpour. I happened to have an umbrella in the trunk for Hayden to hold and the stroller has a sunshade and I had a hooded jacket in the car, so we made it inside fairly dry, including the card Hayden made (all on her own this morning) for her teacher and the flowers I'd picked the night before. I hadn't realized how long and slow the line of cars to drop off kids would be, though I figured there would be more cars in the parking lot than usual, so we really had to hurry in to make it on time. We were so rushed I didn't have time to think, much less cry when I dropped her off. I was sure I'd be a wreck so this surprised me. Maybe it is good we were running late!

The next couple hours went by fairly fast, having coffee with friends and then puttering around the house while I waited for it to be time to walk down the street to wait for Hayden. The bus was due to arrive at 12:40 so we left at 12:30, just to be safe. Bryce and I waited near the end of the street, me keeping my eye out for the big yellow bus to turn the corner below. He occupied himself throwing rocks and leaves and pine cones into the bushes in the empty lot across the street. I occupied myself by panicking a tiny bit more with each passing minute. I thought, oh no. What if there is a problem and the school called me but I didn't get the message because we were already outside? I also was sure if I ran back (hauling 31.5 pounds of toddler) to grab my cell phone that the bus would come at that exact moment and we'd miss it. So we waited. Finally about 10 minutes late the bus pulled up. I gave the bus driver the flowers I'd picked for her and almost cried out of sheer relief. I was SO GLAD to see my best girl coming down the bus stairs. She was happy, had enjoyed school and the bus ride, and we walked home holding hands.

Later on, after Hayden was seated and having lunch I looked at her cute little self sitting there eating, completely unaware of the momentous step she had just taken, and I was overcome with emotion. I went up behind her to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek and tell her again how glad I was to have her home. As I was leaning in, I let out a huge breath of air. It was like I had forgotten to breathe until that very moment. I keep taking deep breaths and reminding myself that we survived, did quite well even. I just need to remember to breathe.

All or nothing

I almost set myself up to fail. Or I do nothing because the task at hand overwhelms me. I know how to set a goal, take a big project and break it up into smaller, more manageable tasks. But it is still my instinct to try and do everything at once. Right now a big goal for me is to get back into shape. This means eating less, drinking more water, walking and getting more sleep. I could start with any one of those things. But instead I try to diet, drink extra water, and workout all at the same time. And I get discouraged because it is hard to change so many habits at once and I back slide. Even though I know I am more likely to have success if I go slowly, I try to speed up the process. Why? WHY?? It frustrates me yet I haven't figured out a way around myself.

So it occurs to me the biggest obstacle to progress is not my lack of time, my excess of chores, cupcakes, or anything else I could blame. It is me. Damn.

Whatever happened?

The other day, an old friend brought back memories of my childhood. I was never very athletic, but I was really into bar routines on the playground. I could do all sorts of tricks. The backs of my knees were always bruised and my hands were so calloused I wondered if they'd ever be smooth again. Sometimes we'd make up routines to do side-by-side on the big bar, but I was a little late to this because I couldn't do cherry drops, or the more risky death drop, as soon as my friends could. But there was usually someone to help me do a lemon drop (a cherry drop where someone holds your hands as you land) and my more talented friends inspired me to learn to do it on my own. I remember practicing and practicing in my own backyard, until it was dark outside. It took a lot of guts to let go, to unhook my knees and fly through the air to land on my feet. There were plenty of times I didn't land on my feet, as I recall! But I kept trying. I remember at first I didn't quite get both legs off at the same time, but I was able to land properly. And before long I could do the perfect cherry drop--hang by your knees, swing 1, 2, 3, dismount. I can't remember if I did death drops or not. I am cautious by nature and those are scarier. I am sure I tried, but I think I stuck to cherry drops most of the time.

A few times in adulthood I have climbed onto the bar to see if I could still do any tricks. But now that I am older and out of practice, it hurts! My hip bones painfully grate the bar, the backs of my knees burn and my hands no longer have the protective callouses that allowed me to swing and twirl for hours. And I don't have the same strength I used to. It's hard just to jump up! I was trying to think what, if anything, I could teach my daughter. I don't think I would be brave enough to try a cherry drop, sure I'd land on my face or break something. But why not? What happened to the little girl that tried and tried, bruises and all, until she got it right? Is she still inside of me somewhere? I don't know for sure, but I am afraid she is gone. I hope to see her again--instead through my own daughter's strength, my son's perseverance. Maybe she isn't gone so much as passed on to my children. We all need to have courage and determination, but my kids will need it more in the coming years than me. I hope I can inspire them to be brave like I once was. Like I still can be, when I need to.

Missing out

I keep telling myself that if Bryce does not feel like he is missing out, I shouldn't feel sorry either. I was looking at another friend's blog, one who has a baby who is younger but far more physically able, and I was sad that Bryce couldn't walk by himself and hold his own trick-or-treat bucket tonight. According to his dad, he was not allowed to trick-or-treat at all because he couldn't walk. At first we towed him in a wagon, where he looked small and sad. Then he started to get angry about the whole deal. I think he realized the older kids were getting something good and he clearly was not. So I took him out and carried him to the door of the next house, where he hollered until I let him at the candy bowl. Then he acted afraid of the lady who tried to give him a piece and didn't really want to take the thing, acted like it was being forced upon him. Ugh. So much for being grateful. One of my pet peeves is people who dress up their babies and get candy those same kids can't even eat, and I am sure that is what we looked like. Or I wondered if people were wondering why that toddler wasn't walking by himself. Most likely no one really cared that much.

I tried to hang around in the back while the older kids got their candy and only go to the door if Bryce demanded it. He went to a few other places and the same sorry scene repeated, save one house at the end where they were very sweetly passing out boxes of animal crackers to the ones too little to eat candy. He did look very cute in his borrowed cow costume and that family was so charmed by him that they took a photo of the wife (a nice grandmotherly type) giving Bryce the cookies. That is the part of the night I want to remember, not him screaming to be put down on the wet pavement, where I was not going to let him just sit or crawl around in the dark, which is what he seemed to want to do, or squawking and refusing the candy he had just demanded. I got him to walk a little bit holding my hands, but he is still so unsteady and it hurts my back to hobble along over him that we couldn't keep it up for too long.

It did not help matters that our other child was whining loudly, saying she was too tired to go on and that her candy bucket was too heavy. Can you believe that? A kid complaining she has too much candy. What is wrong with my children?! At one point they were both in the wagon, and Bryce was NOT happy to be sharing it with his sister and her horse costume, pardon me, pegasus-unicorn costume. So they were both whining. Evidently neither one believes in that old adage about children being seen but not heard. Meanwhile our friends' children were skipping ahead, literally running to each house. The only thing they were scolded for was running too far ahead of us, unlike our whiny lumps who wanted to be carried to the next house, or to just sit in the wagon and eat candy.

I think part of the problem is that I have in my head what things should be like (for instance Halloween should be like our friends' kids, who were full of energy and excitement and just so happy to be a part of everything). And then when the reality doesn't match it disappoints me. I think that is part of being a planner (and also a worrier). I try to anticipate the outcome. Sometimes things turn out better than I expect, and sometimes not. But that doesn't mean I want to change the experience or don't appreciate it. I have been doing a pretty good job of focusing on all of the things my kids can do and not dwelling on their shortcomings. This has been really important for me to do as Bryce is being left in the dust by every single baby in our playgroup, even the one who isn't even a year old. No, Bryce can't walk yet. But he can build a Lego tower nearly as tall as he is! And so much more. He is happy (most of the time) with all that he can do and that is what matters.

 

If I just move the coffeemaker...

If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, my attempts to reorganize the kitchen have been fairly insane. Three or maybe four times I have moved the coffeemaker from the right side of the sink to the left, with the sincere belief that this would make the kitchen function better. There is really only one small prep area in the whole kitchen, and the coffeemaker was taking up part of it. So I moved it to the other side of the sink near the phone. But then that cluttered up a swath of counter that I need to remain clear for my sanity. The rest of the kitchen can be a disaster, but if at least that one area is clear I feel a tiny bit better. (I need to point out that quite often that area is not clear because certain family members are incapable of going the extra three feet to the recycling bin outside and pile up bottles, cans, etc. there on the counter despite my pleas for one clear area. But that is another post.) So I moved the coffeemaker back to the right. After a year or so, I once again thought it would improve the flow of the kitchen if the coffeemaker was out of the prep area and I repeated the whole unsuccessful experiment. Insane.

I have been trying to move excess stuff off the counter and I had a sort of hole where the cat cookie jar (which holds tea bags) used to be. The cat is now on the windowsill. You've heard 40 is the new 30, well, the windowsill is the new counter: a place to display things, mostly gifts, which I can't seem to put in a closet somewhere. They have sentimental value, and also we have limited storage space. But I digress. So last weekend I had the brilliant idea to put the coffeemaker where the cat jar was. (Cat jar sounds sort of bad, like a jar full of cats.) This would free up my prep area and keep the area by the phone clear and still be near enough the sink and coffee cups. What more could I ask for?

Suddenly my insanity has turned into logic. The kitchen works better. I know this because I have managed to keep the counter tops clean for a miraculous five days in a row. Despite my husband. As I type this I see he has ditched a catalog, in my one little food prep area no less. Glad he is trying to keep my streak going.

The catalyst of burning rubber

I strongly dislike this house. I can't say I hate it, because it is our home, after all. But it drives me nuts on a daily basis. One of the keys to getting out of here is to finish what we've started, the biggest project being the basement. I got an estimate for the work a month or so ago and was stunned when it was more than double what we were told just a couple years ago. So I became temporarily paralyzed and just stopped thinking about it for a while. I got another number to call for a bid, but still did nothing. And then I smelled something burning.

I was preheating the oven to bake birthday cake for my husband and soon realized something was in the oven that shouldn't be. I have no idea how the little rubber stopper (for which we do not know the origin) ended up in the oven but it probably stuck to one of the pots and pans we store in there and fell to the bottom, which is where I found it, melting away. We have to store pots and pans in the oven because there is nowhere else to put them in the poorly designed kitchen. The poorly designed kitchen in which it is difficult to get anything done in the poorly designed house next to the annoying neighbors. A house in which we are stuck until it is finished (and the market goes up, ideally). Suddenly I was inspired. I scraped out the melting black thing and immediately looked up the phone number for the contractor a friend recommended. Amazing what a little burning rubber can do.

Self-inflicted torture

I have read that prisoners of war were tortured by being kept awake for days on end. It is psychological torture, one that doesn't leave physical marks and thus can be denied. And it is very effective. One's will can be broken after just a few days. As one POW described it, the need for sleep is incomparable, more powerful than even hunger or thirst.

So why would someone sign up for such torture? That is what I am currently asking myself. I knew I would lose some sleep after becoming a parent. It is a small price for pay for the endless joy my kids bring me. But I don't think I realized it would go on for so long. I left losing "some sleep" in the dust months ago. I am currently bordering on losing all sleep and comprehending all too well why the KGB used sleep deprivation to beat prisoners into submission. I certainly feel beaten. The worst thing is, I don't feel like I can complain much. I brought this on myself. It was my idea. I thought it would be fun. And it usually is fun. But it is hard to enjoy my kids when I am so tired I can't think straight. Or when one of them is likewise tired and not being particularly enjoyable.

I have it in my head that it is better to have my kids and be miserable than not have them at all. That I am lucky to be miserable. Even in my sleep-deprived state I see the irony. I don't, unfortunately, see an end in sight. I know years from now this will fade from memory. And I certainly don't want to wish this time away. I love my kids. I also would love some sleep. It makes me sad that the two are mutually exclusive at present. I know it will get better. It has to.

Stars

Last night I was out late watering my garden and I couldn't believe how many stars there were. I used to spend a lot of time looking at stars, wishing on stars. I remember many a night spent with one or both of my parents in our hot tub, my neck craned to search the dark sky for satellites or the rare but breathtaking shooting star. It was always so much more exciting when two of us spotted the same one. I don't think I could have articulated it at the time, but shooting stars, and many things in life, seem even more beautiful when shared. I would try to come up with especially important wishes for shooting stars, sure that they were more likely to come true. But I was happy to wish on regular stars in the meantime. I'd try to go outside with blinders on so that I only saw one star and could wish on it and truthfully say "first star I see tonight" even if there happened to be a dozen stars already visible. What a nut I was. Am. I still wish on stars occasionally. I find prayer more helpful, but wishing has its place in the world, too.

I wonder when I stopped making a point to watch the stars. When I started college, got busy with life? I am not sure, but I know it's been a while since I really stopped and looked. Last night there were so many stars it made me sorry I haven't noticed for so long. It is nearly a full moon so the sky is especially bright right now. I wished my daughter could see but of course I was not foolish enough to wake her up! She has had a fascination with the night sky lately and has been getting up in the middle of the night to peer out her window and stargaze. I know this because she tells me, "I counted seven stars last night!" or something similar. I also know this because her blinds are all askew in the morning. I can't tell her not to do it because she doesn't bother anyone. She thinks stars are beautiful and magical and who am I to discourage her from counting them or wishing on them? I taught her the "Star light, star bright" poem and her version is not quite right but very endearing. She wished one night for a scooter and not three days later did her friend Mitchell pass on his scooter to her when he couldn't take it to his new home. Coincidence? I think not!

So tonight after bath, I was very glad when I remembered the full moon and the starry sky and how much I knew she'd enjoy it. We spread out a blanket and stargazed for nearly an hour. I pointed out what I thought was Mars. She pointed out what she thought were all the other planets. And she counted stars. I think she got up to 37. She said there were probably a hundred. I told her probably a hundred million, though I realize that concept is a few years away from her grasp. She also had the idea to make letters with our bodies and I was surprised how good she was at this! The two of us parallel with my arms touching her made an H. If she laid perpendicular to me at my head, it made a T. And we did O and A and R and P and B. I never would have thought to do this with her and I love that she has such a good imagination. She is already so smart. I kept looking at her, at the adorable cheeks, the wide eyes, the wonder written all over her beautiful face, and felt like my heart might burst. Sometimes I can't believe she is really ours.

I hesitate to use the word perfect, but tonight came close. Being with my girl (and my husband, who was so tired he fell asleep next to us on the deck) appreciating the stars, the trees framing the night sky, the house where we have this amazing view, is about as good as it gets. I thank God for moments like this, when I am reminded of how much I have. Life is definitely more beautiful when shared.