God doesn't give you more than you can handle. It's one of those sayings like everything happens for a reason that doesn't sit right with me. Still, this was my prayer today:
I can't handle more. Please.
My dad got very ill suddenly back in October. He was taken by ambulance to the hospital with a raging fever. "Sepsis," my sister told me when she called. Hearing the word, I could see it on Henry's death certificate. The word infiltrated my brain, spreading, growing, like the infection itself as I waited for more news, tried to figure out if I needed to go.
I did go that afternoon. As soon as I parked in the hospital garage, I was in in hospital mode—purposeful, quick, tense. I figured out where the stairs were and how to wend the maze that all hospitals seem to be. When I went in to see him, my dad was joking, shaken, but himself. They figured out the source of the problem. Treated it, got a bunch of antibiotics in him, sent him home with a plan for surgery in several weeks.
My dad had surgery on Thursday. It seemed to go well. Thursday night, he joked about going to work on Monday. Yesterday he was in a lot of pain. Today more. And he didn't seem right.
My dad was rehospitalized this evening. We're in the waiting stage now, waiting to see if a CT scan gives useful information. Right now, we don't know if there is really something to worry about. I'm waiting for the call, or if it's really late, an email from my sister and I keep thinking: I can't handle more. December is enough already. I can't handle more. Please.
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Clearing
I came home from Thanksgiving a bit reluctantly a day earlier than usual, which turned out to be a wonderful decision. I spent the weekend cleaning: clearing debris—scraps of paper, twisted pipe cleaners, bits of cloth, small sticks and pebbles—and tidying the art table in the playroom so you could actually do a project or find materials there. I dusted and vacuumed. I packed away sweat shirts and organized snow clothes. And I sorted through the boxes and piles that have covered and surrounded my dining room table since August when I gave up my office and transformed it into a playroom. I have no regrets about that change. The room gets much better use as a playroom, but the residual chaos has been driving me crazy. Some how, going into December with a clearer space (the table isn't quite empty, but it's getting there) makes a difference. I feel lighter walking through the house. There's something to that who clear space, clear mind thing.
Kathleen could barely wait to put up the tree. "Can we do it now?" "Let's put up the tree!" "You said we'd start during Lizzy's nap." We put together our artificial tree together. She watched me untangle the lights and wrap them around and around and around. She handed me the red and green wooden bead garland. Around and around and around again. Then we waited some more for Lizzy to wake up.
Here's the red bird paper ornament from Amy and the felt heart I made with one of our Buddy Walk hearts and the matching hearts for both my girls. Here's the red bird Jenni felted for me and the beaded star that arrived while I was in the hospital with Elizabeth, and the one from the ornament swap with the "desert cardinal" feather. Here's the felt cardinal we had on the tree when I was little that I loved just for itself that means something else now. Here's sand from my home town and the painted ornament Brian and I bought in Aruba. Here's the canoe I bought for Brian the year we bought the canoe and snowshoes and a cross country skiing Santa (remember when we did those things?) Our tree is too full. We have a small tree, so perhaps a full size tree is order, or maybe I simply need to weed out the ornaments that don't have a story.
The decorating is done, though Kathleen keeps asking if there are more Christmas decorations, more holiday toys. But we're done. There are red birds throughout the house. Snowflakes, the ones my aunt gave me one of those first awful winters, glint in the sunlight. I light my candle and Henry's tree. I sit by the fire and look into the empty space in the dining room. I look at the space I cleared and breathe into it.
December, three days in, still wary, but stronger.
Kathleen could barely wait to put up the tree. "Can we do it now?" "Let's put up the tree!" "You said we'd start during Lizzy's nap." We put together our artificial tree together. She watched me untangle the lights and wrap them around and around and around. She handed me the red and green wooden bead garland. Around and around and around again. Then we waited some more for Lizzy to wake up.
Here's the red bird paper ornament from Amy and the felt heart I made with one of our Buddy Walk hearts and the matching hearts for both my girls. Here's the red bird Jenni felted for me and the beaded star that arrived while I was in the hospital with Elizabeth, and the one from the ornament swap with the "desert cardinal" feather. Here's the felt cardinal we had on the tree when I was little that I loved just for itself that means something else now. Here's sand from my home town and the painted ornament Brian and I bought in Aruba. Here's the canoe I bought for Brian the year we bought the canoe and snowshoes and a cross country skiing Santa (remember when we did those things?) Our tree is too full. We have a small tree, so perhaps a full size tree is order, or maybe I simply need to weed out the ornaments that don't have a story.
The decorating is done, though Kathleen keeps asking if there are more Christmas decorations, more holiday toys. But we're done. There are red birds throughout the house. Snowflakes, the ones my aunt gave me one of those first awful winters, glint in the sunlight. I light my candle and Henry's tree. I sit by the fire and look into the empty space in the dining room. I look at the space I cleared and breathe into it.
December, three days in, still wary, but stronger.
Sunday, November 24, 2013
December looming
As I look at my grocery list and wonder if there is anything I absolutely need before Friday, anything that is worth descending into the hell that is supermarket the week before Thanksgiving, I realize that holiday is almost here. It's late this year, so two days later, the Christmas season is upon us. Christmas, and of course, December.
I'm not ready.
As my mind tries to grapple with birthday party—which kids, how will I fit them and their parents in my house, is my house really still in this utter disarray from my office dismantling this summer?, theme, when—and the special snacks for school and a present and Christmas—crafts and shopping and decorating, my heart is bending in around itself, protecting, pushing back the busyness and all the doing.
I seem to alternate between okay years and not okay years. This feels like one of the latter. Where last year I barged into December ready for battle, ready to reclaim the month or at least some part of it, this year I'm worn out already. I can't seem to get any traction going into the month.
I've done my usual clearing of the slates as much as possible: no appointments, no work from difficult clients, no tight deadlines. I'm trying to get myself organized to wrap up the gift part early, get that out of the way. My family is helpful. They realize that this month still wipes me out. They offer to pick up or order gifts that will bear my name, and sometimes I take them up on it. I hand off the toughest of my nieces and nephews to Brian.
I look at my to do list and think about what I really have to do and which things I really want to do. I try to cross out the rest. But there is an almost five-year-old who wants a real birthday party this year. The kind with games and cake. If it were not this month, if life had not taken that wrong turn a year before she was born, I would be all over it. We'd have fun picking a theme, figuring out games and activities and decorations, decorating a cake. I don't want to throw a birthday party in the middle of December, but even more I don't want to let my daughter down. I have grappled with this since before she was born, since I stared down that first December without Henry and waited for her to arrive.
When I ask who she wants at her party, she starts listing her cousins. Maybe I'm trying to tackle this all wrong. I keep trying to get out of the way and hear what it is that's important to her, try to strip down my own expectations of what birthday means. I try to create simple traditions, ones I can pull off, ones that can grow with us. I love the idea of a quiet tradition that fits our family, but I remember birthday parties—the DIY, homemade affairs that I grew up with, the kind my sisters give their kids. I toy frequently with the idea of a summer half-birthday party as the time to do all the games and activities. I don't know how to sell her on that though, so I keep coming back trying to figure out what it is in her head.
I am looking forward to
I'm dreading
Stumble trip Stumble trip Stumble trip
I'm not ready.
As my mind tries to grapple with birthday party—which kids, how will I fit them and their parents in my house, is my house really still in this utter disarray from my office dismantling this summer?, theme, when—and the special snacks for school and a present and Christmas—crafts and shopping and decorating, my heart is bending in around itself, protecting, pushing back the busyness and all the doing.
I seem to alternate between okay years and not okay years. This feels like one of the latter. Where last year I barged into December ready for battle, ready to reclaim the month or at least some part of it, this year I'm worn out already. I can't seem to get any traction going into the month.
I've done my usual clearing of the slates as much as possible: no appointments, no work from difficult clients, no tight deadlines. I'm trying to get myself organized to wrap up the gift part early, get that out of the way. My family is helpful. They realize that this month still wipes me out. They offer to pick up or order gifts that will bear my name, and sometimes I take them up on it. I hand off the toughest of my nieces and nephews to Brian.
I look at my to do list and think about what I really have to do and which things I really want to do. I try to cross out the rest. But there is an almost five-year-old who wants a real birthday party this year. The kind with games and cake. If it were not this month, if life had not taken that wrong turn a year before she was born, I would be all over it. We'd have fun picking a theme, figuring out games and activities and decorations, decorating a cake. I don't want to throw a birthday party in the middle of December, but even more I don't want to let my daughter down. I have grappled with this since before she was born, since I stared down that first December without Henry and waited for her to arrive.
When I ask who she wants at her party, she starts listing her cousins. Maybe I'm trying to tackle this all wrong. I keep trying to get out of the way and hear what it is that's important to her, try to strip down my own expectations of what birthday means. I try to create simple traditions, ones I can pull off, ones that can grow with us. I love the idea of a quiet tradition that fits our family, but I remember birthday parties—the DIY, homemade affairs that I grew up with, the kind my sisters give their kids. I toy frequently with the idea of a summer half-birthday party as the time to do all the games and activities. I don't know how to sell her on that though, so I keep coming back trying to figure out what it is in her head.
I am looking forward to
- putting up the tree with the girls
- the wrapped up books advent calendar that I'm planning for them
- sleeping with Kathleen on her birthday, because she is so excited about it
- the tea party to honor Brian's mom, using the tiny cups she gave the girls
- seeing their faces Christmas morning
I'm dreading
- Christmas Eve and the hour and half mass and the scramble to get to Brian's brother's house
- getting bogged down in things that feel like they need to get done
- that day just past the middle of the month, the one between the birthdays and Christmas, the one that is dark no matter the weather
Stumble trip Stumble trip Stumble trip
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Late October
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Postscript: Shortly after I saw the last out and watched the players jumping and hugging, I started thinking about the parade, the inevitable "rolling rally." In all likelihood, I figured, it would be Saturday. And it is. I'm supposed to go to Boston on Saturday for the grieving families day I always go to at Children's. So once again, I'm thinking about routes and traffic and how to navigate the city around that team.
Strike!
Out!
As I waited for the last two outs, the ones that seemed
inevitable, I remembered watching the Red Sox win the World Series in 2007.
They weren’t in Boston, but I was. I watched the game on a tiny TV pulled over
Henry’s bed. I took pictures of him in his fleece Red Sox hat, with his Red Sox
bear, and a Red Sox cookie from my friend Erika on his chest. I watched because
as a Red Sox fan, I felt like I should.
In 2007, I stopped being a Red Sox fan. It wasn’t so much
that I disliked them, didn’t transfer my allegiance to another team, I just saw
them as roadblock. When the Red Sox were in town my dad couldn’t come in to
visit or bring me dinner. People would tell me to get out of the hospital for a
while, but I wasn’t willing to go as far as my parents and there were no rooms
to be had. I watched the Red Sox out of habit and some tie to my normal life,
but mostly I just wanted them to go away.
After that, I mostly ignored them. I didn’t care, associated
them with those hard months in Boston with Henry. Brian’s not a fan of sports
at all and we had cheap cable and didn’t get most of the games, so it was easy to
not watch.
This season, it wasn’t until the World Series that I started
watching again, and I thought maybe I could start doing this again, enjoy the
Red Sox again. But during that last inning, I remembered the baby who “watched”
with me last time. He should be six. Would he be a fan? I can see him with a
ball cap with that familiar B on it. Would he have begged to stay up to watch
the game? Would I have let him, remembering where he was the last time he
watched?
I jumped on the Red Sox bandwagon late this year, but maybe this is
another little piece of my life I’ve reclaiming. Little things.
Postscript: Shortly after I saw the last out and watched the players jumping and hugging, I started thinking about the parade, the inevitable "rolling rally." In all likelihood, I figured, it would be Saturday. And it is. I'm supposed to go to Boston on Saturday for the grieving families day I always go to at Children's. So once again, I'm thinking about routes and traffic and how to navigate the city around that team.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Before
As part of the legnthy process of transforming my home office to play room, I'm working on getting rid of my old computer. The one run Mac OS 8.6. The one I haven't used in, oh, six years or so. It's been sitting there because I thought there might be stuff on there I wanted to keep, so tonight I plugged it back in and delved in. I pulled some old writing and a few random files. Then I found my email.
I didn't know how to copy it other than to save individual messages as text files. (I haven't tried opening them on my new computer, so hoping it worked.) I found the emails from when Brian and I first met and birthday plans with my friend K. and messages from fall 2006 through spring 2007 when I was announcing and discussing my new and drawing to a close pregnancy.
I was so damn cheerful, even in late spring when we knew about the heart. I was so hopeful and happy and naive, even as they changed the date of my c-section, even as we met with a cardiologist. I took things in stride better than I ever had in my life.
I found emails from two friends, due like I was in June, who had ultrasound scares. I had remembered one of them having an amnio after her ultrasound, but I had forgotten that the other had had any scare at all. Both of them had healthy babies.
I read emails that had nothing to do with babies and plans for my shower and advice about cloth diapers. I talked about prenatal yoga and feeling good and starting to show and feel movement. A friend's wedding, work issues, TV shows . . . all these bits of my life before.
I've read again the emails I got while Henry was in the hospital and those that came in after he died, but I hadn't looked at the time of hope and anticipation since that time. There is part of me that can't figure out how I was ever that person, but I'm glad I was. I'm glad I had that time of trusting and looking forward with excitement not trepidation.
I didn't know how to copy it other than to save individual messages as text files. (I haven't tried opening them on my new computer, so hoping it worked.) I found the emails from when Brian and I first met and birthday plans with my friend K. and messages from fall 2006 through spring 2007 when I was announcing and discussing my new and drawing to a close pregnancy.
I was so damn cheerful, even in late spring when we knew about the heart. I was so hopeful and happy and naive, even as they changed the date of my c-section, even as we met with a cardiologist. I took things in stride better than I ever had in my life.
I found emails from two friends, due like I was in June, who had ultrasound scares. I had remembered one of them having an amnio after her ultrasound, but I had forgotten that the other had had any scare at all. Both of them had healthy babies.
I read emails that had nothing to do with babies and plans for my shower and advice about cloth diapers. I talked about prenatal yoga and feeling good and starting to show and feel movement. A friend's wedding, work issues, TV shows . . . all these bits of my life before.
I've read again the emails I got while Henry was in the hospital and those that came in after he died, but I hadn't looked at the time of hope and anticipation since that time. There is part of me that can't figure out how I was ever that person, but I'm glad I was. I'm glad I had that time of trusting and looking forward with excitement not trepidation.
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