I was going to finally come here today and moan about how I've been drowning in work and hating it because it's getting in the way of the stuff that matters. And then I got a call. My neighbor J. down the street at the farm died. Despite knowing hospice was in, I didn't expect this news so soon. I'm sad, sad she won't be showing us and visitors around the animals, sad I won't hear "Hiya, hun" when I walk by, sad that she is gone.
My mind, however, wouldn't stay put. It raced back and forth. It went back to when Henry was in the hospital and I'd tell him again and again about home (where we would be again someday). I'd tell him about the farm and how M. would teach him to feed a lamb a bottle. I'd sing "Old McDonald" to him, but I'd sing "Down the road there is a farm, EIEIO. And on that farm you might see J, EIEIO, with a Hello here and a Hello there, here Hello, there Hello, everywhere Hello, Hello, down the road there is a farm, EIEIO." He's gone and she's gone.
My jumped ahead too, to another call that will come some day, sooner than we will like or expect, despite knowing that hospice is in. The call will come that my mother-in-law has passed or is struggling. There will be a flurry of getting down there and tears and everything breaking open again.
And then my mind comes to rest on the last time I saw J. It was a strangely springlike day a couple of weeks ago, and we were out for a walk. We stopped to see the chickens and were heading back to the wagon when we saw J. with people taking her out for a walk. She seemed cheery, glad to be out, and, aside from the wheelchair, fine. I remember her smile and her greeting and I settle with that.
Our neighborhood is close, and a piece is missing today, down the road, at the farm.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Friday, February 10, 2012
In the system
About seven weeks ago, I got a letter telling me that Kathleen and Elizabeth had been enrolled in one of our state healthcare for kids programs. I didn't want or need this coverage for them and certainly didn't want to pay the monthly premium on top of what we are already paying. Although I didn't really apply for this (I guess in a backward way I did by applying for premium assistance when Brian was in school), they suddenly sent me a bill. Or two bills rather, one for each kid, because they're efficient that way.
I was irritated that they were giving me something that didn't really help and denying me what would help. I was irritated that they were making me call to cancel something I never really asked for. Mostly I was exhausted by the idea of calling them.
We applied when Henry was sick for both the state plan and SSDI. After he died, I had to call both and go through a rigamarole to cancel his never used coverage, talking to this person and that and holding and being transferred, and each time having to say, "My son died." Exactly one person said anything like, "I'm sorry." Most just seemed confused because there was no page in their script for "baby died." I finally got to the last person, explained the situation ending with "he died."
"And?" she said, clearly irritated that I was wasting her time with my dead baby. And. And—that's why every interaction I've had with them has been exhausting. I dread making the call.
I had to call today to cancel the unwanted plans for the girls. The person I spoke to was pleasant and efficient. She got our account number and the girls' names and birth dates. She put me on hold to check our account. When she came back, she asked if I was cancelling for two children or three.
He's still in the system. Maybe I should be glad that he is in there, still lurking, proof that he was, but how many times do I have to say, "He died"? It's wearying. I managed to get off the phone before I cried. It seems like not having him should be enough, that I shouldn't have to keep confronting bureaucracy about it.
I was irritated that they were giving me something that didn't really help and denying me what would help. I was irritated that they were making me call to cancel something I never really asked for. Mostly I was exhausted by the idea of calling them.
We applied when Henry was sick for both the state plan and SSDI. After he died, I had to call both and go through a rigamarole to cancel his never used coverage, talking to this person and that and holding and being transferred, and each time having to say, "My son died." Exactly one person said anything like, "I'm sorry." Most just seemed confused because there was no page in their script for "baby died." I finally got to the last person, explained the situation ending with "he died."
"And?" she said, clearly irritated that I was wasting her time with my dead baby. And. And—that's why every interaction I've had with them has been exhausting. I dread making the call.
I had to call today to cancel the unwanted plans for the girls. The person I spoke to was pleasant and efficient. She got our account number and the girls' names and birth dates. She put me on hold to check our account. When she came back, she asked if I was cancelling for two children or three.
He's still in the system. Maybe I should be glad that he is in there, still lurking, proof that he was, but how many times do I have to say, "He died"? It's wearying. I managed to get off the phone before I cried. It seems like not having him should be enough, that I shouldn't have to keep confronting bureaucracy about it.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Whatever else
Whatever else I did today—
whether or not I met my deadline
whether I did all the laundry or left some in the dryer and the basket,
whether I served healthy meals and good snacks or drank too much coffee and ate too much sugar
whether I got Kathleen to pick up toys and go on the potty without a tantrum
whether I got us outside on this balmy, melty, sunshiny day—
whatever else got done or undone,
this morning I sat at breakfast and played peek-a-boo with Elizabeth.
We took turns doing the peeking. We peeked from behind hands and napkins.
She said "Picka buh." She laughed. Whatever else today, there is that.
whether or not I met my deadline
whether I did all the laundry or left some in the dryer and the basket,
whether I served healthy meals and good snacks or drank too much coffee and ate too much sugar
whether I got Kathleen to pick up toys and go on the potty without a tantrum
whether I got us outside on this balmy, melty, sunshiny day—
whatever else got done or undone,
this morning I sat at breakfast and played peek-a-boo with Elizabeth.
We took turns doing the peeking. We peeked from behind hands and napkins.
She said "Picka buh." She laughed. Whatever else today, there is that.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
My View, Year 4
It has become a January tradition for me to sit in this chair that I got to rock my babies in and reflect on what I see and what has changed and where I am.
The view this year is much like last year. The swing is gone, replaced by the kitchen set, but toys still fill the shelves and block the fireplace. Kathleen's babies—Lulu, Baby, Maisie, and Jack (where's Bessie?) are jumbled on top of the stuffed animals along with "Sister's baby" Maxie, who Kathleen informed me is Lulu's brother. The stuffed animals are piled in a huge basket, made by our neighbor and given to us at our neighborhood party two days before Henry was born.
The milkcrates and CD stand still overflow with board books and picture books. One of our actual bookcases, however, is half empty, the books moved to save them from Elizabeth, who has a knack for destroying them.
CDs are piled above the TV all around Henry's picture, where I've stuck them after our pre-bedtime dance parties.
Up until last week, the Christmas tree lighted the corner by the stairs, the first time since 2006 a Christmas tree graced our home. Now, the Christmas ornaments are down, with some snowflakes and snowmen and cardinals (I categorize them all as winter) remain.
From here, I can see that much of the house is a mess, though I don't know if it is more so than years past. I think I just feel more overwhelmed with stuff. Toys, diaper bags, outgrown clothes litter the table and pile by the stairs. I don't worry really about the house being clean. I don't bother to apologize for my messy house. But sometimes, the clutter gets to me. Every time I make headway, we get an influx of clothes or laundry piles up waiting to be put away or I don't have time to finish sorting and everything gets jumbled again. Sigh.
It's messy and lived in and filled with things we love (and things we don't have the time or energy to get rid of (see above). Sitting now, remembering the many steps Elizabeth took today, it's hard to recall just how tiny she was this time last year, how many hours I logged nursing and reading and cuddling in this chair. Thinking of the songs Kathleen makes up, its hard to remember what it felt like sitting with her three years ago, making up songs for her. Looking around this room full of family and life and love and stuff, it's hard to remember the barren walls and just how shocked and adrift I was four years ago. I look again at his pictures and still wonder how this can be my life, how he can be gone. And I look around the room again and wonder how that fits somehow with all that is here, because it does. His being gone is somehow part of this life that we have settled into.
The view this year is much like last year. The swing is gone, replaced by the kitchen set, but toys still fill the shelves and block the fireplace. Kathleen's babies—Lulu, Baby, Maisie, and Jack (where's Bessie?) are jumbled on top of the stuffed animals along with "Sister's baby" Maxie, who Kathleen informed me is Lulu's brother. The stuffed animals are piled in a huge basket, made by our neighbor and given to us at our neighborhood party two days before Henry was born.
The milkcrates and CD stand still overflow with board books and picture books. One of our actual bookcases, however, is half empty, the books moved to save them from Elizabeth, who has a knack for destroying them.
CDs are piled above the TV all around Henry's picture, where I've stuck them after our pre-bedtime dance parties.
Up until last week, the Christmas tree lighted the corner by the stairs, the first time since 2006 a Christmas tree graced our home. Now, the Christmas ornaments are down, with some snowflakes and snowmen and cardinals (I categorize them all as winter) remain.
From here, I can see that much of the house is a mess, though I don't know if it is more so than years past. I think I just feel more overwhelmed with stuff. Toys, diaper bags, outgrown clothes litter the table and pile by the stairs. I don't worry really about the house being clean. I don't bother to apologize for my messy house. But sometimes, the clutter gets to me. Every time I make headway, we get an influx of clothes or laundry piles up waiting to be put away or I don't have time to finish sorting and everything gets jumbled again. Sigh.
It's messy and lived in and filled with things we love (and things we don't have the time or energy to get rid of (see above). Sitting now, remembering the many steps Elizabeth took today, it's hard to recall just how tiny she was this time last year, how many hours I logged nursing and reading and cuddling in this chair. Thinking of the songs Kathleen makes up, its hard to remember what it felt like sitting with her three years ago, making up songs for her. Looking around this room full of family and life and love and stuff, it's hard to remember the barren walls and just how shocked and adrift I was four years ago. I look again at his pictures and still wonder how this can be my life, how he can be gone. And I look around the room again and wonder how that fits somehow with all that is here, because it does. His being gone is somehow part of this life that we have settled into.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Five little things
I love that Kathleen calls clementines, lemontines, and the image of a squishy, easy to peel, tart, yellow fruit it creates for me.
Kathleen tried skating today for the first time. She got out on the ice on her double-bladed skates, holding tight to our friend's hands and then mine. She moved on to a milk crate and then, center ice (on the tiny, wonderful homemade backyard rink), she let go and half stepped, half slid one foot forward. Again. Again. Again. Til she reached me at the side, complaining that her hands were cold.
We went out skating today (I tried too though it has probably been 20 years—or more—since I last wore skates). We went out skating today despite my careful watching of the thermometer (It was 20 degrees out today, but sunny and still. Compared to yesterday with it's biting wind it felt almost warm.). We went out skating today despite the work deadline waiting on my desk. I'm glad we went skating today (and glad too to have moved that bigger than it seemed project off my desk).
Last week, while I was working, Brian and Kathleen made me five-layer squares, one of my favorite treats, certainly my favorite that Brian makes. He makes them particularly good by not skimping on any ingredients and being exceedingly precise in spreading the ingredients. I still have a few left and I look forward to my afternoon coffee every day because I get to have one.
We made chili over the weekend. I say we, but Brian did most of the work while I learned about making cheese and traded a few jars of dilly beans and jam for chutney and honey and elderberry elixir. Fourteen quarts of chili means a bunch of meals in the freezer—and chili pizza this week. As Kathleen would say—Hooray! That's another thing I love, how much she has been saying Hooray! lately.
Kathleen tried skating today for the first time. She got out on the ice on her double-bladed skates, holding tight to our friend's hands and then mine. She moved on to a milk crate and then, center ice (on the tiny, wonderful homemade backyard rink), she let go and half stepped, half slid one foot forward. Again. Again. Again. Til she reached me at the side, complaining that her hands were cold.
We went out skating today (I tried too though it has probably been 20 years—or more—since I last wore skates). We went out skating today despite my careful watching of the thermometer (It was 20 degrees out today, but sunny and still. Compared to yesterday with it's biting wind it felt almost warm.). We went out skating today despite the work deadline waiting on my desk. I'm glad we went skating today (and glad too to have moved that bigger than it seemed project off my desk).
Last week, while I was working, Brian and Kathleen made me five-layer squares, one of my favorite treats, certainly my favorite that Brian makes. He makes them particularly good by not skimping on any ingredients and being exceedingly precise in spreading the ingredients. I still have a few left and I look forward to my afternoon coffee every day because I get to have one.
We made chili over the weekend. I say we, but Brian did most of the work while I learned about making cheese and traded a few jars of dilly beans and jam for chutney and honey and elderberry elixir. Fourteen quarts of chili means a bunch of meals in the freezer—and chili pizza this week. As Kathleen would say—Hooray! That's another thing I love, how much she has been saying Hooray! lately.
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