I woke up completely naked on a brightly lit operating room table with my hands stretched out to either side of me, cuffed to the table. Some describe it as the Christ pose, but to me it felt like the execution pose. I was violently shivering but I couldn't do anything about it because I was strapped down.
"How long was that operation?" I heard someone, perhaps a surgical technician, ask.
The answer was 45 minutes. That's what the doctor told me when they wheeled me to the OR. I rolled an eye to the clock on the wall. The math didn't add up.
"Two-and-a-half hours," someone else I couldn't see answered.
***
But before that emergency C-section, I sat there, horrified as the coughing doctor sewed up my tear in the hospital bed instead of the operating table. She kept applying pressure. "I can't stop the bleeding and the skin is falling off when I'm trying to sew it up." Then she ducked her head into her shoulder so she could cough again.
My mother, who has had severe bladder-related problems her entire adult life due to having children and then a bad sew-job, squeaked, "This isn't going to affect her long term, is it?"
"We'll see."
I turned to the anesthesiologist standing at my shoulder. She seemed like a nice lady. "Excuse me, usually when I go into surgery I get something for anxiety," I announced.
"You seem fine," she replied.
"I'm not," I said, realizing I sound like a drug seeker. I am the opposite of a drug seeker. I avoid all opioids because they make me vomit. But the drug they give you when they wheel you to the operating room? The one that makes you really happy and carefree? I wanted that. That is the only good thing about surgery.
"It'll affect the baby," she retorted.
"Then you'll give it to me as soon as the baby's out."
She rolled her eyes.
The whole day has been miserable. First the epidural leaked all over the computer, then the doctor on call thinly tried to veil the fact she had a cold. My big ass hips, the ones my pediatrician in high school called “great birthing hips,” were not big enough for my 6-something-pound baby's head. I ripped and I'm bleeding and I have a fever and there's still no effing baby.
It was 10:30 pm on New Year's Day. The only thing I could do to salvage this experience is to give my baby a cool birthday, like New Year's Day. There was less than two hours left.
Abraham changed into scrubs and I was re-prepped for surgery for the second time within the hour. At the corner in front of the double doors to surgery, I told my mom I loved her, you know, in case. She didn’t register why I said it.
It was explained to me that most of the time spent in surgery was putting me back together as opposed to getting the baby out. A baby can be removed in a matter of minutes with what’s lovingly called a “slash and grab.” Fortunately for me, this wasn’t a life-threatening emergency C, so I would get the smaller of the potential incision sites. But because baby was so close to being born vaginally, they actually had to push him back up the birth canal so they could reach him through my abdomen.
I started screaming. “I know I’m supposed to feel pressure,” I said for the second time that night, “but I am feeling burning. It BURNS!”
“Do I need to stop?” the doctor calmly asked the anesthesiologist.
The anesthesiologist took out a clear syringe and injected it in my vein. “Nope.”
Was that my anxiety drug I asked for? Whatever it was, it helped.
The doctor announced she had the baby. The moments between that announcement and hearing him cry were the longest moments of my life. I swear it took a beat longer than normal. It took long enough for Abraham to say, “I don’t hear him?”
And then we heard it: not a baby cry, but a little duck quack. That’s what it sounded like. The nurses cleaned him up and wrapped him up and brought him over to my head. I couldn’t hold him or touch him; I could only look at this person who I’ve spent the last 9 months wondering about.
“Hello. Hi.”
People describe these grand feelings of I never knew what love was until I laid eyes on you. Not me. I was stuck in my head still wondering about him. Would he love sports like his dad? Be too sensitive like his mom? Did he look like a certain name, because we still didn’t have one for him.
And then the nurse turned to take him away for his measurements and told Abraham to follow.
“I love you,” I said because I was worried I didn’t say enough.
Behind the plastic curtain, it was time for the doctor to put me back together. Feed my intestines my back into me.
“I can’t get her uterus to fit,” she called out, frustrated. “There’s too much bleeding. I need help.”
“Am I going to die?”
Those were the last words I said.
***
My mother sat in the waiting room with all the other families who ended up with stories similar to mine: unplanned C-section due to abnormal labor. She watched as families who came after her left before her. One after one until she was the only one left. It was the middle of the night. She knew something wasn’t right.
She called Abraham. “Where’s Sarah?” She asked.
Abraham, who had been taking selfies with Junior, flagged a nurse. One nurse called another nurse. When he heard the tone of the conversation, he became worried.
***
The clock on the wall said 1:50 am. It was no longer New Year’s Day. They wheeled me into the ICU. I felt beat up, like I had gotten in a car accident that had gotten in a train wreck. Abe met me there and looked extremely worried. Junior was in the nursery.
The ICU was a big open area with curtains that separated each patient. I heard a family a few curtains away sound worried.
They gave me drugs, the really strong kind. They gave me ice for my incision site. I felt awful. I was in such generalized pain that I couldn’t pinpoint it to any specific complaint.
A nurse came in. “It’s time to feed your baby,” she announced.
What? No.
“I can’t,” I said. “I’ll be a mom tomorrow, but I am going to rest tonight.”
“Your baby hasn’t eaten the entire time he’s been alive,” she stated thinly. (I swear to God she said this.)
~Wednesday, November 7, 2018
~Monday, June 5, 2017
The Worst Day of My Life - Part 2
"It's time to push!" the nurse exclaimed.
"Something's not right," I mumbled. The simultaneous radiating and stabbing pain was back. "I know I'm supposed to feel pressure, but this is a lot of pain," I explained.
"The epidural might have worn off. You might just have to push without the drugs," the nurse chipped.
"Um, no." And then I crossed my legs at the ankle to make my point. "You said I could get an epidural any time until the head was showing. I'll wait." I acted cool, but my mind was screaming. I had never even considered the possibility of an unmedicated birth, but that option quickly became my number one worst case scenario. I have health insurance and I am weak and I don't want to be in pain if I don't have to be.
Abraham looked at the computer I was hooked up to. "Is it supposed to be wet over here?"
The nurse checked the station. "Oh my god, the epidural is leaking all over the computer. It's not going into your back at all."
"I told you I felt pain!" I never turn down an opportunity to prove that I was right.
"The line is cracked and leaking. We'll replace it. I swear this has never happened before."
"Mmhmm." As she was mopping up the area, I wondered if I was going to be charged for the sweet, sweet drug that was spilling everywhere. Yes, I nodded to myself.
Within 5 minutes a second tube was connected and I was feeling a lot better.
I pushed three times, the number of times I said I was going to have a baby by, and nothing.
Okay, five times.
Nothing.
It soon became an out-of-body experience. They told me to push and I would. Then instead of pushing three times per contraction, they bumped me up to four. My mind was blank except for following instructions.
They took my temperature, and I heard the nurse say I had a fever of over 102.
Sober me would have known what this meant. I work closely with a panel of doctors of all different specialties, including one OB/GYN who was the head of his department of a local hospital. At my request, he had sat me down and told me the medical definition of abnormal labor. He showed me the graph of each phase of labor and how long has been deemed medically acceptable to be in each stage. I actually printed it and brought it with me to the hospital.
"If you are in abnormal labor, there is an increased risk of infection to both the mother and the baby," he explained to me. "That's why C-sections are done. At a certain point the risk of C-section becomes less than the risk of continuing an abnormal labor. Signs of an infection include fever."
Instead of making the connection, I vomited.
The nurse told me I had been pushing for over an hour and a half. She saw hair, she could touch it, but my baby had stopped making progress after a certain point.
"His head's getting misshapen," she explained. "He's getting a cone head. You're pushing, but he's not moving." She checked me. "Normally I can sweep my finger around a baby's head, but there's no room. His head won't fit."
"He's 6-something pounds," I said in disbelief. "He's tiny. How can he not fit?"
"It must be your anatomy," she said.
"Have you seen my hips? They were described as birthing hips since high school."
"Sometimes the outside anatomy doesn't match the inside anatomy."
"So I have big hips for no reason?"
She didn't answer me. Instead she got the doctor. Since it was New Year's Day, she appeared to be right out of medical school. She had a cold and was not wearing a surgical mask when she coughed directly into my vagina. Everybody in the room reeled in disgust. The nurse conferred with her, and they had me push for another half hour.
"His head won't fit."
"So you say."
"I'm recommending a C-section. You have a fever, the baby's heart rate has been elevated, and there's no progression. You have to be prepped for surgery, and there is one person ahead of you, so it will be about 45 minutes. Just relax for now."
C-section wasn't what I wanted, but I had made my peace with it when the OB in my office explained to me why it sometimes happens. The only thing I didn't like about it was being awake. That part freaked me out.
I asked Abraham to go get my mother. An anesthesiologist came in the room and cranked up my epidural to total lower-body numbness. At least I got to keep my drugs. When she went to place the catheter, she screamed.
"Gah!"
"What?" asked the nurse.
"The baby. I see it."
The nurse came around and looked. "He does look farther in the birth canal."
The nurse went to get the doctor again. "Let's unprep you for surgery and have you push again."
They removed the catheter and had me try again. Maybe if I push REALLY hard, this will all be over and I won't have to have surgery.
I pushed REALLY hard. No baby.
"Oh dear, you just ripped," said the doctor. "Now you need stitches before you go into surgery."
"Can't you just do all the sewing up at once?" my mom asked.
"How do you rip without a baby?" I exclaimed.
"I can't stop the bleeding," she announced.
"Something's not right," I mumbled. The simultaneous radiating and stabbing pain was back. "I know I'm supposed to feel pressure, but this is a lot of pain," I explained.
"The epidural might have worn off. You might just have to push without the drugs," the nurse chipped.
"Um, no." And then I crossed my legs at the ankle to make my point. "You said I could get an epidural any time until the head was showing. I'll wait." I acted cool, but my mind was screaming. I had never even considered the possibility of an unmedicated birth, but that option quickly became my number one worst case scenario. I have health insurance and I am weak and I don't want to be in pain if I don't have to be.
Abraham looked at the computer I was hooked up to. "Is it supposed to be wet over here?"
The nurse checked the station. "Oh my god, the epidural is leaking all over the computer. It's not going into your back at all."
"I told you I felt pain!" I never turn down an opportunity to prove that I was right.
"The line is cracked and leaking. We'll replace it. I swear this has never happened before."
"Mmhmm." As she was mopping up the area, I wondered if I was going to be charged for the sweet, sweet drug that was spilling everywhere. Yes, I nodded to myself.
Within 5 minutes a second tube was connected and I was feeling a lot better.
I pushed three times, the number of times I said I was going to have a baby by, and nothing.
Okay, five times.
Nothing.
It soon became an out-of-body experience. They told me to push and I would. Then instead of pushing three times per contraction, they bumped me up to four. My mind was blank except for following instructions.
They took my temperature, and I heard the nurse say I had a fever of over 102.
Sober me would have known what this meant. I work closely with a panel of doctors of all different specialties, including one OB/GYN who was the head of his department of a local hospital. At my request, he had sat me down and told me the medical definition of abnormal labor. He showed me the graph of each phase of labor and how long has been deemed medically acceptable to be in each stage. I actually printed it and brought it with me to the hospital.
"If you are in abnormal labor, there is an increased risk of infection to both the mother and the baby," he explained to me. "That's why C-sections are done. At a certain point the risk of C-section becomes less than the risk of continuing an abnormal labor. Signs of an infection include fever."
Instead of making the connection, I vomited.
The nurse told me I had been pushing for over an hour and a half. She saw hair, she could touch it, but my baby had stopped making progress after a certain point.
"His head's getting misshapen," she explained. "He's getting a cone head. You're pushing, but he's not moving." She checked me. "Normally I can sweep my finger around a baby's head, but there's no room. His head won't fit."
"He's 6-something pounds," I said in disbelief. "He's tiny. How can he not fit?"
"It must be your anatomy," she said.
"Have you seen my hips? They were described as birthing hips since high school."
"Sometimes the outside anatomy doesn't match the inside anatomy."
"So I have big hips for no reason?"
She didn't answer me. Instead she got the doctor. Since it was New Year's Day, she appeared to be right out of medical school. She had a cold and was not wearing a surgical mask when she coughed directly into my vagina. Everybody in the room reeled in disgust. The nurse conferred with her, and they had me push for another half hour.
"His head won't fit."
"So you say."
"I'm recommending a C-section. You have a fever, the baby's heart rate has been elevated, and there's no progression. You have to be prepped for surgery, and there is one person ahead of you, so it will be about 45 minutes. Just relax for now."
C-section wasn't what I wanted, but I had made my peace with it when the OB in my office explained to me why it sometimes happens. The only thing I didn't like about it was being awake. That part freaked me out.
I asked Abraham to go get my mother. An anesthesiologist came in the room and cranked up my epidural to total lower-body numbness. At least I got to keep my drugs. When she went to place the catheter, she screamed.
"Gah!"
"What?" asked the nurse.
"The baby. I see it."
The nurse came around and looked. "He does look farther in the birth canal."
The nurse went to get the doctor again. "Let's unprep you for surgery and have you push again."
They removed the catheter and had me try again. Maybe if I push REALLY hard, this will all be over and I won't have to have surgery.
I pushed REALLY hard. No baby.
"Oh dear, you just ripped," said the doctor. "Now you need stitches before you go into surgery."
"Can't you just do all the sewing up at once?" my mom asked.
"How do you rip without a baby?" I exclaimed.
"I can't stop the bleeding," she announced.
~Monday, April 10, 2017
The Worst Day of My Life
Author's note: For every piece of advice there is on the Internet regarding anything to do with pregnancy and child-rearing, there is equal and opposite advice. It narrows down to two different schools of thought: those who treat their pregnancies naturally, and those who desire medical supervision. While I agree that pregnancy isn't an illness, it has been proven that pregnancy is inherently riskier than non-pregnancy. For this reason, I am and remain pro medical supervision. Also give me all the drugs.
The day I gave birth was the worst day of my life. "But you got a baby out of it!" the nurse justified. I don't care. Everything that I had to go through to get there was the worst thing to ever happen to me.
I was overdue and in my doctor's office. He pulled off his gloves after the examination and leaned back. "Why don't we talk in my office?"
I dressed slowly and waddled to his office down the hall. "Uh oh," Abe breathed.
"No, it's fine. We do all of our talking in his office," I explained. We took our seats.
"So you are past your due date. With your age and your gestational diabetes, you are now at an increased risk of stillbirth."
I inhaled sharply through my teeth. It wasn't anything I didn't already know--I had done my research--but hearing it acknowledged shocked me. At a certain point past your due date, your placenta breaks down and no longer delivers nutrients to your baby, causing stillbirth. Additionally with gestational diabetes, it is possible that your baby grows so big that it can outgrow the womb and die. It happened to a friend of mine. And I was not going through this, this 9 months of wrecking my body, to not get a baby out of it.
He continued. "For this reason, I am recommending for you to be induced. The bad news is that I am not working at the hospital for another week, and that is too long to allow for you to go. I won't be your doctor. Sorry." I nodded in agreement, although my mind was reeling. "How's Saturday?" he asked.
Saturday? Saturday is a week away! I burst into tears. "I don't want to be pregnant another week!" I wailed.
Abraham touched my shoulder. "Saturday is tomorrow," he said gently.
Oh! That Saturday! The one before the one next week. I laughed through my tears.
My hospital is nicknamed "The Baby Factory" because it delivers more babies per year than any other hospital in the country. We arrived at night, after having a big meal. It was New Year's Eve. The nurse wore a Happy New Year tiara as she handed me a stack of paperwork to complete. Abe stood in front of the TV, trying to find the ball drop.
"This is the best they could do for New Year's programing?" I asked. "I don't even know who these people are."
Abe shrugged.
Something wasn't right with the program; it felt off. I kept watching TV. "Abe!" I screamed, "YOU HAVE US WATCHING CARSON DALY!" I ripped the remote out of his hands. "How is that guy still a thing?" I muttered as I flipped to Ryan Seacrest.
The ball dropped and Abe pecked me on the lips. I changed the date to January 1 as I continued signing the paperwork.
The nurse missed her New Year's party as she put an IV in my hand. The vein rolled and she dug to find it. That hurt. I was fighting tears about the pain, then I was fighting tears that I was complaining about the IV when THERE'S A BABY INSIDE MY BODY THAT HAS TO COME OUT.
"It's okay," she consoled. "This really is one of the most painful parts." I'm pretty sure she was lying but it made me feel better.
She gave me the first of the induction cocktail and I went to sleep. When I woke up, my water broke. Then they started the Pitocin, which causes contractions. I slept for a few hours until I woke up in pain. I could have crawled the walls with how much pain I felt. It radiated within me and felt stabby at the same time. I cried for the second time that day until I got my first fentanyl injection. Then I texted my friends now I understood why Prince died.
I had the epidural placed by the time I had dilated to three centimeters. I certainly didn't last long. The relief I felt was glorious, and I don't understand why these are not given as soon as you walk in the door. ("Placing the needle in your back is more painful when you are not yet in other pain," the nurse explained.)
And then I slept again. They turned out the lights and I slept all afternoon. When I woke up, it was 8:00 PM and I was fully dilated.
I'm going to have the best birth story ever, I thought. I slept through labor and now I'm going to push three times and have a baby. I'm going to sit on my sofa with my baby in my arms and smugly tell people how wonderful my birth experience was. That IV in my hand really was the worst.
And that's the exact moment things went to shit.
The day I gave birth was the worst day of my life. "But you got a baby out of it!" the nurse justified. I don't care. Everything that I had to go through to get there was the worst thing to ever happen to me.
I was overdue and in my doctor's office. He pulled off his gloves after the examination and leaned back. "Why don't we talk in my office?"
I dressed slowly and waddled to his office down the hall. "Uh oh," Abe breathed.
"No, it's fine. We do all of our talking in his office," I explained. We took our seats.
"So you are past your due date. With your age and your gestational diabetes, you are now at an increased risk of stillbirth."
I inhaled sharply through my teeth. It wasn't anything I didn't already know--I had done my research--but hearing it acknowledged shocked me. At a certain point past your due date, your placenta breaks down and no longer delivers nutrients to your baby, causing stillbirth. Additionally with gestational diabetes, it is possible that your baby grows so big that it can outgrow the womb and die. It happened to a friend of mine. And I was not going through this, this 9 months of wrecking my body, to not get a baby out of it.
He continued. "For this reason, I am recommending for you to be induced. The bad news is that I am not working at the hospital for another week, and that is too long to allow for you to go. I won't be your doctor. Sorry." I nodded in agreement, although my mind was reeling. "How's Saturday?" he asked.
Saturday? Saturday is a week away! I burst into tears. "I don't want to be pregnant another week!" I wailed.
Abraham touched my shoulder. "Saturday is tomorrow," he said gently.
Oh! That Saturday! The one before the one next week. I laughed through my tears.
My hospital is nicknamed "The Baby Factory" because it delivers more babies per year than any other hospital in the country. We arrived at night, after having a big meal. It was New Year's Eve. The nurse wore a Happy New Year tiara as she handed me a stack of paperwork to complete. Abe stood in front of the TV, trying to find the ball drop.
"This is the best they could do for New Year's programing?" I asked. "I don't even know who these people are."
Abe shrugged.
Something wasn't right with the program; it felt off. I kept watching TV. "Abe!" I screamed, "YOU HAVE US WATCHING CARSON DALY!" I ripped the remote out of his hands. "How is that guy still a thing?" I muttered as I flipped to Ryan Seacrest.
The ball dropped and Abe pecked me on the lips. I changed the date to January 1 as I continued signing the paperwork.
The nurse missed her New Year's party as she put an IV in my hand. The vein rolled and she dug to find it. That hurt. I was fighting tears about the pain, then I was fighting tears that I was complaining about the IV when THERE'S A BABY INSIDE MY BODY THAT HAS TO COME OUT.
"It's okay," she consoled. "This really is one of the most painful parts." I'm pretty sure she was lying but it made me feel better.
She gave me the first of the induction cocktail and I went to sleep. When I woke up, my water broke. Then they started the Pitocin, which causes contractions. I slept for a few hours until I woke up in pain. I could have crawled the walls with how much pain I felt. It radiated within me and felt stabby at the same time. I cried for the second time that day until I got my first fentanyl injection. Then I texted my friends now I understood why Prince died.
I had the epidural placed by the time I had dilated to three centimeters. I certainly didn't last long. The relief I felt was glorious, and I don't understand why these are not given as soon as you walk in the door. ("Placing the needle in your back is more painful when you are not yet in other pain," the nurse explained.)
And then I slept again. They turned out the lights and I slept all afternoon. When I woke up, it was 8:00 PM and I was fully dilated.
I'm going to have the best birth story ever, I thought. I slept through labor and now I'm going to push three times and have a baby. I'm going to sit on my sofa with my baby in my arms and smugly tell people how wonderful my birth experience was. That IV in my hand really was the worst.
And that's the exact moment things went to shit.
~Sunday, January 1, 2017
Ways I have Already Ruined this Baby's Life: Continued
For the first 28 weeks of pregnancy, I was the picture of health. Despite being high risk with my Advanced Maternal Age (eye roll) and complete lack of thyroid, I was having the most average pregnancy possible. It seemed like all of my friends were in scary, high-risk-in-that-they-were-life-threatening pregnancies that involved specialists, bed rest, and hospital stays, I was firmly in the camp of No News Is Good News.
Then I got diagnosed with gestational diabetes. The diagnosis was a complete shock to me. I didn't have any of the symptoms: rapid weight gain, swelling, etc. In my picture of health, I was second trimester and had only gained four pounds! FOUR POUNDS. I was eating no more than I was pre-pregnancy. Sure, type 2 diabetes runs rampantly in my father's side of the family--in that everyone has it--but it was going to skip me because I am normal.
GD is the most inconvenient of diagnoses. There's nothing truly wrong with you: your placenta just makes your pancreas a little sluggish. It's temporary. All you have to do is CHECK YOUR BLOOD SUGAR 4 TIMES A DAY AND FOLLOW THIS SUPER SIMPLE DIET THAT INCLUDES NO FUN AT ALL. Remember using pregnancy as an excuse to eat whatever you want? Well not you, missy.
Long-story short: I rocked it. I followed the diet to a T and remained in my assigned blood sugar levels, which I would like to add are way below type 2 diabetes levels.
Me: Hey Dad, what does your fasting level have to be in the morning?
Dad: Anything under 130 is good for me. Why, what does yours have to be?
Me: (grumbles) 95.
Dad: What a conspiracy. I wouldn't even have diabetes if my fasting was 95.
I'm now including a list of food I haven't eaten in the last 80 days because of this bullshit diagnosis because it makes me so sad:
Then I got diagnosed with gestational diabetes. The diagnosis was a complete shock to me. I didn't have any of the symptoms: rapid weight gain, swelling, etc. In my picture of health, I was second trimester and had only gained four pounds! FOUR POUNDS. I was eating no more than I was pre-pregnancy. Sure, type 2 diabetes runs rampantly in my father's side of the family--in that everyone has it--but it was going to skip me because I am normal.
GD is the most inconvenient of diagnoses. There's nothing truly wrong with you: your placenta just makes your pancreas a little sluggish. It's temporary. All you have to do is CHECK YOUR BLOOD SUGAR 4 TIMES A DAY AND FOLLOW THIS SUPER SIMPLE DIET THAT INCLUDES NO FUN AT ALL. Remember using pregnancy as an excuse to eat whatever you want? Well not you, missy.
Long-story short: I rocked it. I followed the diet to a T and remained in my assigned blood sugar levels, which I would like to add are way below type 2 diabetes levels.
Me: Hey Dad, what does your fasting level have to be in the morning?
Dad: Anything under 130 is good for me. Why, what does yours have to be?
Me: (grumbles) 95.
Dad: What a conspiracy. I wouldn't even have diabetes if my fasting was 95.
I'm now including a list of food I haven't eaten in the last 80 days because of this bullshit diagnosis because it makes me so sad:
- Hamburgers
- French fries
- Pizza
- Milkshakes
- Ice cream
- Chinese food
- Chips, any kind
- Cupcakes, at any baby shower, including my own
- Cookies
- Rice
- Cereal
- Hot dogs, not that I've wanted to eat them, but I can't
- Pasta, any kind
- Fruit, FRUIT
- Milk, MILK
- Juice
- Smoothies, any kind, including the gross vegetable kind
- Tonic water
- Gatorade
- Muffins, including English
- Bagels
- Pastries, including doughnuts, which has made me cry more than once
- Pumpkin coffee
- Any holiday drink at Starbucks
I would just like to point out that this is in addition to the pregnancy diet, so no sushi or alcohol or deli meat, rare steaks, etc. This is basically the biggest pain in the ass, and I am really unhappy about it. What have I been eating? A lot (A LOT) of breaded chicken. Chicken wings, chicken fingers, chicken nuggets. Some potatoes. A little Chex Mix. I am single handedly keeping the Greek yogurt business alive in Georgia, spending about $20 a WEEK in yogurt. A lot of cheese sticks, which I don't even like. If I never eat another peanut butter cracker, it will be too soon.
But my levels have been great and the baby isn't measuring giant-sized, which is the goal. The doctor complimented me last week, telling me that I've done really great this pregnancy, and it felt like winning an award, I was so proud of myself.
A lot of people want alcohol brought into the hospital. I asked for champagne, a milkshake, a hamburger, and a box of doughnuts.
~Friday, December 30, 2016
Ways I have Already Ruined this Baby's Life: An Incomplete List
- Having a due date so very close to Christmas, according to one stranger. (It seems like this one has passed.)
- Having an MRI (without contrast, thank god) done on my ankle during that waiting period between ovulation and a positive test.
- Taking ibuprofen during this same period for this same ankle.
- Following the saying, "Drink until it's pink."
- Stopping at a friend's house in Georgia in May and not wearing any mosquito repellent. It was during the height of the Zika scare and I got eaten alive.
I was keeping this list until Harvey patted her own pregnant tummy and passed on the best advice that was given to her. "It's hard to screw up a good pregnancy," she told me. " Women don't randomly flush healthy fetuses out of their bodies. Miscarriages happen because there is something amiss with the chromosomes of the embryo. They don't develop correctly, and it becomes non-viable." So a couple of doses of ibuprofen aren't great, but it won't ruin a good thing.
~Wednesday, December 28, 2016
Baby Daddy
After I saw the faintest of pink lines, I smiled to myself and went to sleep. I did not tell Abe. Partly because it didn't feel real yet. The other reason was that we were getting up in the morning to travel to be with 26 of his closest family members for Passover, and so help me if they are the first people to know because he's too excited to keep a secret.
This plan worked well until about 7:30 in the morning when I was standing in the security line at the airport, staring at the full-body scanner. I know they say it's safe, but I also know that I've spent the last 7 years of my life working in research, and I don't know for sure whether they've done long-term studies.
I hopped on one foot to another. I didn't know what I was going to do. It would certainly be suspicious to refuse the scanner and ask for a pat down at this point in our marriage. But fate smiled at me and a metal detector line opened up as soon as I dropped my bag on the conveyor belt. (Interestingly enough, it was the only time I went through a metal detector while pregnant. At every other instance, mostly at concerts and the like, they've pulled me out of the line and ushered me to the other side, which totally reinforces my decision to skip the full-body scanner.)
And then the plan finally went to shit that same day at 4:00 pm. I went to the bathroom and saw some light, very light, spotting. Aww no, I had been pregnant for less than 24 hours. I texted a coworker and she said it could be one of three things: a chemical pregnancy, a miscarriage, or implantation spotting. Two of the three did not result in babies. I was stuck at his family's house and could no longer sneak around. My choice was to drive myself crazy or I could trust my husband and use him for support.
He was outside playing baseball in the street with his cousins. "I need to go to Target," I said,
"Sure, What do you need?" he smiled.
"Um. A pregnancy test."
His smile vanished, "Okay. Let's go."
In the car I explained the last day to him, including the 2-out-of-3 chance that I'm not pregnant after all. At Target, I looked for the tests my coworker told me to buy, the ones that are sensitive before a missed period. The exact kind escapes me now, but I remember her telling me to get the ones with the pink lines, not the blue lines.
I hemmed and hawed at the selection. "This one is $1.19 and it has pink lines," I said.
"Oh for god's sake, please don't scrimp now. I will buy the most expensive test there is," Abraham exclaimed exasperated. It was cute.
I picked a box that contained two for $7.00, and then impulsively plucked a flower for a dog collar off the clearance rack. "For the dog," I said.
Those tests came back positive too. "If you tell your family," I threatened, "I will leave you here in New Jersey."
So Abraham spent the night covertly drinking my wine during the Seder dinner. I think he enjoyed being in on the secret.
The next day we were sitting at an Italian cafe in New York City. My doctor's office finally called me back. "He doesn't see pregnant patients until they are 7.5 weeks along. You are 3 weeks and 6 days," she told me. A whole another month away.
So we never got to celebrate. We went from the scare to not even getting medical confirmation for a solid month.But I am glad I told him when I did. What's the point of being married to someone and knocked up with his baby if you can't even trust him to tell him? I guess that's my first advice to my unborn child: marry someone who will lessen your problems, not add to them.With Abraham, I can tell him anything and he listens and tries to carry some of my burden. He's a wonderful person, and I know he's going to be a great dad.
Me? I'm still neurotic.
This plan worked well until about 7:30 in the morning when I was standing in the security line at the airport, staring at the full-body scanner. I know they say it's safe, but I also know that I've spent the last 7 years of my life working in research, and I don't know for sure whether they've done long-term studies.
I hopped on one foot to another. I didn't know what I was going to do. It would certainly be suspicious to refuse the scanner and ask for a pat down at this point in our marriage. But fate smiled at me and a metal detector line opened up as soon as I dropped my bag on the conveyor belt. (Interestingly enough, it was the only time I went through a metal detector while pregnant. At every other instance, mostly at concerts and the like, they've pulled me out of the line and ushered me to the other side, which totally reinforces my decision to skip the full-body scanner.)
And then the plan finally went to shit that same day at 4:00 pm. I went to the bathroom and saw some light, very light, spotting. Aww no, I had been pregnant for less than 24 hours. I texted a coworker and she said it could be one of three things: a chemical pregnancy, a miscarriage, or implantation spotting. Two of the three did not result in babies. I was stuck at his family's house and could no longer sneak around. My choice was to drive myself crazy or I could trust my husband and use him for support.
He was outside playing baseball in the street with his cousins. "I need to go to Target," I said,
"Sure, What do you need?" he smiled.
"Um. A pregnancy test."
His smile vanished, "Okay. Let's go."
In the car I explained the last day to him, including the 2-out-of-3 chance that I'm not pregnant after all. At Target, I looked for the tests my coworker told me to buy, the ones that are sensitive before a missed period. The exact kind escapes me now, but I remember her telling me to get the ones with the pink lines, not the blue lines.
I hemmed and hawed at the selection. "This one is $1.19 and it has pink lines," I said.
"Oh for god's sake, please don't scrimp now. I will buy the most expensive test there is," Abraham exclaimed exasperated. It was cute.
I picked a box that contained two for $7.00, and then impulsively plucked a flower for a dog collar off the clearance rack. "For the dog," I said.
Those tests came back positive too. "If you tell your family," I threatened, "I will leave you here in New Jersey."
So Abraham spent the night covertly drinking my wine during the Seder dinner. I think he enjoyed being in on the secret.
The next day we were sitting at an Italian cafe in New York City. My doctor's office finally called me back. "He doesn't see pregnant patients until they are 7.5 weeks along. You are 3 weeks and 6 days," she told me. A whole another month away.
So we never got to celebrate. We went from the scare to not even getting medical confirmation for a solid month.But I am glad I told him when I did. What's the point of being married to someone and knocked up with his baby if you can't even trust him to tell him? I guess that's my first advice to my unborn child: marry someone who will lessen your problems, not add to them.With Abraham, I can tell him anything and he listens and tries to carry some of my burden. He's a wonderful person, and I know he's going to be a great dad.
Me? I'm still neurotic.
~Thursday, July 21, 2016
Smile!
One of the first Christmases my sister-in-law attended, she scoffed at us.
"Christmas is so much different at my house."
"How?" My mother asked.
"It's joyous."
She probably had a point. My mother's grandparents were farmers during the Great Depression, and they would save every penny and buy more land. There was some story about how a Pizza Inn was built in town, and her grandmother never got to go because they were always saving for land. As a result, gifts given from my mother are always modest and practical in nature. My brother and I would take turns opening our towels and smile and say thank you. You don't really jump up and down like you would if you got the newest gaming system.
So maybe it's because my great-grandmother never got to go to Pizza Inn. Maybe it goes deeper with our German roots. Maybe it's as simple as the terrible divorce my mother went through when we were kids, but we are not a joyous family. I used to write about that a lot.
I remember when we signed the wedding venue. All I wanted was to have the wedding in one of those antebellum homes. Inject a little bit of me into what would be a Jewish ceremony. And we found the perfect house. It was painted white and had 2-story columns on the front porch, and the flooring was so old that it creaked when you walked in the house. The curtains were green velvet in the front parlor, just like Scarlet O'Hara's Tara. And the bar had been refinished in glorious mahogany wood. It was magnificent. It was perfect. And that's where I had my wedding.
My dad and mom and I sat around a 10-person table. My parents were writing checks for the deposit. "Smile!" my dad ordered.
I did. I think he wanted the reaction when you get a new gaming system on Christmas day. He was writing a large check; he wanted me to jump up and down and kiss his neck with appreciation. I must have given him the towel smile.
"That's Sarah," my father said to no one in particular. "Sarah isn't a happy person."
I was happy! I was also nervous!
My mother freely admits that we are a reserved people. She also thinks I had my thyroid disease for much longer than anyone had realized and that it kind of shaped my personality. Always moving at a tone softer than everyone else. There are a thousand more explanations I could come up with if I sat here long enough.
So when I peed on the stick and the pregnancy test turned positive, I shrugged.
That's Sarah, my father's words had echoed. She's not a happy person.
I smiled the towel smile.
"Christmas is so much different at my house."
"How?" My mother asked.
"It's joyous."
She probably had a point. My mother's grandparents were farmers during the Great Depression, and they would save every penny and buy more land. There was some story about how a Pizza Inn was built in town, and her grandmother never got to go because they were always saving for land. As a result, gifts given from my mother are always modest and practical in nature. My brother and I would take turns opening our towels and smile and say thank you. You don't really jump up and down like you would if you got the newest gaming system.
So maybe it's because my great-grandmother never got to go to Pizza Inn. Maybe it goes deeper with our German roots. Maybe it's as simple as the terrible divorce my mother went through when we were kids, but we are not a joyous family. I used to write about that a lot.
I remember when we signed the wedding venue. All I wanted was to have the wedding in one of those antebellum homes. Inject a little bit of me into what would be a Jewish ceremony. And we found the perfect house. It was painted white and had 2-story columns on the front porch, and the flooring was so old that it creaked when you walked in the house. The curtains were green velvet in the front parlor, just like Scarlet O'Hara's Tara. And the bar had been refinished in glorious mahogany wood. It was magnificent. It was perfect. And that's where I had my wedding.
My dad and mom and I sat around a 10-person table. My parents were writing checks for the deposit. "Smile!" my dad ordered.
I did. I think he wanted the reaction when you get a new gaming system on Christmas day. He was writing a large check; he wanted me to jump up and down and kiss his neck with appreciation. I must have given him the towel smile.
"That's Sarah," my father said to no one in particular. "Sarah isn't a happy person."
I was happy! I was also nervous!
My mother freely admits that we are a reserved people. She also thinks I had my thyroid disease for much longer than anyone had realized and that it kind of shaped my personality. Always moving at a tone softer than everyone else. There are a thousand more explanations I could come up with if I sat here long enough.
So when I peed on the stick and the pregnancy test turned positive, I shrugged.
That's Sarah, my father's words had echoed. She's not a happy person.
I smiled the towel smile.
~Friday, June 10, 2016
Tales of a Technical Write Part 1
- Doctor mentions a specific drug that cannot be taken while taking the main drug.
- Google the drug. Never heard of the drug.
- Flip through entire protocol while looking for drug name.
- Flip through protocol again while looking for generic drug name.
- Scratch head.
- Google the drug again.
- Four sites down, read a blurb of meaningless words that describes the drug's mechanism of action.
- Reread protocol looking for gibberish words.
- Find one said meaningless word.
- Realize the doctor made things a whole lot more complicated than needed.
- Insert generic language.
- Done.
~Tuesday, March 29, 2016
Exposed
His name was Johnson, although Johnson wasn't his real name. The rumor throughout high school was that he acquired the name Johnson because he masturbated too much.
I realize now that this probably isn't true.
But the rumor was that he couldn't stop touching his johnson. He bragged about the mark on his car windshield where one time he came so hard that he couldn't clean his semen off the glass.
I realize now that this probably isn't true either.
Johnson was older than me, but we were in the same social circle. The details are fuzzy now, but I think we were in the same math class. Either he had failed or I was in advanced math, but he was a senior in my class. We were also in the same after-school club.
I was always a little intimidated by Johnson. I considered him more popular than me and infinitely cooler than me. Despite these terribly awkward rumors about Johnson, people liked him. Teachers even liked him. I was shy, friendly, but mostly unconfident in myself. I never really talked to Johnson because what could we ever have in common?
***
One afternoon after school, I hefted my book bag on my shoulder and began my daily walk to my job. It was a short walk. The movie theatre was probably three-fourths of a mile down the road, on the other side of the park. Two traffic lights away.
Johnson pulled his car up next to me on the sidewalk.
"You need a ride?"
"Oh! No thanks! I'm just going to the theatre."
"I know. Just hop in and I'll take you there."
I looked at Johnson's beater car. "It's really not that far," I hesitated.
"I'm going that direction anyway."
I got in Johnson's car, bewildered. We've never been alone together. I'm not even sure we've spoken directly to each other, despite spending a lot of time in each other's presence.
Johnson pointed to the milky spot on his windshield. "That's the stain," he said.
"Really? Um, that is a far distance from your lap," I managed.
"Yeah, I really blew my load that time."
I looked out the window uncomfortably. I wish I didn't get in this car. I don't know how to talk like this. I've never had a boyfriend. I've never been French kissed with the exception of Spin the Bottle in eight grade. I'm pretty sure I didn't do it right then anyway. No boy has ever wanted to kiss me.
Johnson stopped at the first red light. I turned and looked at him.
His pants were open, and he had his penis out, stroking it.
It was the first time I had ever seen a penis.
"I have to go!" I screamed as I got out of the car. "Thanks for the ride!"
I ran from the car into the park. I would walk through the trees where the car couldn't reach me. I cried without being able to articulate why. I felt violated even though he never touched me.
Later that night I saw Johnson's beater car pull up to the curb in front of me. I was working the box office, so I was alone on the street surrounded by glass. I was exposed. I had no choice but to see him.
Johnson walked up to the glass. His face was full of remorse and I could tell he felt like shit. I wondered if I was the first girl he pulled this stunt with, or if I was just the first girl to react badly.
"I'm sorry," he stammered. "I'm... I'm so sorry. Please forgive me," he croaked.
"It's okay," I whispered through the glass, unable to use the microphone.
Except I didn't feel okay.
***
I never spoke to Johnson after that night. We avoided each other until he graduated and went off to college. I worked my senior year at the box office in peace.
Johnson reappeared 18 years later as a Facebook friend request. The next week a prank he pulled went viral on the Internet. He's married now, with a son.
He added my email to his work contacts and now sends me business newsletters. He also added me to his charity fundraising page. He runs for kids with cancer.
Fuck you, Johnson. It's not okay.
I realize now that this probably isn't true.
But the rumor was that he couldn't stop touching his johnson. He bragged about the mark on his car windshield where one time he came so hard that he couldn't clean his semen off the glass.
I realize now that this probably isn't true either.
Johnson was older than me, but we were in the same social circle. The details are fuzzy now, but I think we were in the same math class. Either he had failed or I was in advanced math, but he was a senior in my class. We were also in the same after-school club.
I was always a little intimidated by Johnson. I considered him more popular than me and infinitely cooler than me. Despite these terribly awkward rumors about Johnson, people liked him. Teachers even liked him. I was shy, friendly, but mostly unconfident in myself. I never really talked to Johnson because what could we ever have in common?
***
One afternoon after school, I hefted my book bag on my shoulder and began my daily walk to my job. It was a short walk. The movie theatre was probably three-fourths of a mile down the road, on the other side of the park. Two traffic lights away.
Johnson pulled his car up next to me on the sidewalk.
"You need a ride?"
"Oh! No thanks! I'm just going to the theatre."
"I know. Just hop in and I'll take you there."
I looked at Johnson's beater car. "It's really not that far," I hesitated.
"I'm going that direction anyway."
I got in Johnson's car, bewildered. We've never been alone together. I'm not even sure we've spoken directly to each other, despite spending a lot of time in each other's presence.
Johnson pointed to the milky spot on his windshield. "That's the stain," he said.
"Really? Um, that is a far distance from your lap," I managed.
"Yeah, I really blew my load that time."
I looked out the window uncomfortably. I wish I didn't get in this car. I don't know how to talk like this. I've never had a boyfriend. I've never been French kissed with the exception of Spin the Bottle in eight grade. I'm pretty sure I didn't do it right then anyway. No boy has ever wanted to kiss me.
Johnson stopped at the first red light. I turned and looked at him.
His pants were open, and he had his penis out, stroking it.
It was the first time I had ever seen a penis.
"I have to go!" I screamed as I got out of the car. "Thanks for the ride!"
I ran from the car into the park. I would walk through the trees where the car couldn't reach me. I cried without being able to articulate why. I felt violated even though he never touched me.
Later that night I saw Johnson's beater car pull up to the curb in front of me. I was working the box office, so I was alone on the street surrounded by glass. I was exposed. I had no choice but to see him.
Johnson walked up to the glass. His face was full of remorse and I could tell he felt like shit. I wondered if I was the first girl he pulled this stunt with, or if I was just the first girl to react badly.
"I'm sorry," he stammered. "I'm... I'm so sorry. Please forgive me," he croaked.
"It's okay," I whispered through the glass, unable to use the microphone.
Except I didn't feel okay.
***
I never spoke to Johnson after that night. We avoided each other until he graduated and went off to college. I worked my senior year at the box office in peace.
Johnson reappeared 18 years later as a Facebook friend request. The next week a prank he pulled went viral on the Internet. He's married now, with a son.
He added my email to his work contacts and now sends me business newsletters. He also added me to his charity fundraising page. He runs for kids with cancer.
Fuck you, Johnson. It's not okay.
~Friday, March 18, 2016
The Thirtiest
Thirty.
I've been using that word lately as an adjective. As in, "This is the thirtiest I have ever felt." Life has become so different from my twenties that it makes my head spin if I stop too long to think about it.
"When did we become adults?" my coworker asked while we were taking an afternoon walk through the parking lot. "Like, if something bad happens, I'm prepared to handle it. I have money in the bank."
"I know! I was feeling spendy this morning, so I donated to a few charities because there was nothing I needed to buy."
This conversation is pretty thirty.
The first time I felt thirty was when I was out to dinner with my girlfriends. We were at a nice steak house in Buckhead and I had just been served my second glass of pinot noir.
"Our rescue dog has been showing signs of separation anxiety, so I enrolled us in doggy yoga," I told them.
The waiter's eyebrows shot up ten miles high so I stopped for a moment to think about what I had just said. I just said "dog" and "yoga" in the same sentence as a activity to do as if it were perfectly normal.*
That was the thirtiest I had felt for a long time.
Then my friend planned an adult coloring party. I packed up my books and my markers in my Thirty-One tote. As I was walking down the wooden steps to her house, one step was deeper than the others and I rolled my ankle pretty hard when I hit the step unexpectedly.
I was crying before I knew I was still alive. I knew I hurt myself pretty badly falling down the last couple of stairs.** Crying, I laid sprawled on the ground and called Abe, who had just dropped me off.
"My markers!" I wailed. I feebly picked them out of the grass as Abe returned.
"I'm so sorry. I should have waited to make sure you got inside okay," he said. As he was evaluating my foot, my friend approached. They helped me pick up everything I had dropped.
She held up the hummus container, which was flattened like a penny on one side, and said, "Well, I know where you landed."
And then for the foreseeable future I had to tell people that I hurt myself on my way to a coloring party when I fell down the stairs and landed on my hummus.
That, my friends, is the thirtiest I have ever felt.
*No but seriously, doggy yoga was great. They had aromatherapy and played some sort of calming-dog CD and the room was dark and I taught her downward-facing dog. She really enjoyed it.
*Y'all, I broke my tailbone and was on crutches for over a month. The doctor said I did the most amount of damage that I could have possibly done without breaking anything. It still hurts. I have to lay around like a Roman.
I've been using that word lately as an adjective. As in, "This is the thirtiest I have ever felt." Life has become so different from my twenties that it makes my head spin if I stop too long to think about it.
"When did we become adults?" my coworker asked while we were taking an afternoon walk through the parking lot. "Like, if something bad happens, I'm prepared to handle it. I have money in the bank."
"I know! I was feeling spendy this morning, so I donated to a few charities because there was nothing I needed to buy."
This conversation is pretty thirty.
The first time I felt thirty was when I was out to dinner with my girlfriends. We were at a nice steak house in Buckhead and I had just been served my second glass of pinot noir.
"Our rescue dog has been showing signs of separation anxiety, so I enrolled us in doggy yoga," I told them.
The waiter's eyebrows shot up ten miles high so I stopped for a moment to think about what I had just said. I just said "dog" and "yoga" in the same sentence as a activity to do as if it were perfectly normal.*
That was the thirtiest I had felt for a long time.
Then my friend planned an adult coloring party. I packed up my books and my markers in my Thirty-One tote. As I was walking down the wooden steps to her house, one step was deeper than the others and I rolled my ankle pretty hard when I hit the step unexpectedly.
I was crying before I knew I was still alive. I knew I hurt myself pretty badly falling down the last couple of stairs.** Crying, I laid sprawled on the ground and called Abe, who had just dropped me off.
"My markers!" I wailed. I feebly picked them out of the grass as Abe returned.
"I'm so sorry. I should have waited to make sure you got inside okay," he said. As he was evaluating my foot, my friend approached. They helped me pick up everything I had dropped.
She held up the hummus container, which was flattened like a penny on one side, and said, "Well, I know where you landed."
And then for the foreseeable future I had to tell people that I hurt myself on my way to a coloring party when I fell down the stairs and landed on my hummus.
That, my friends, is the thirtiest I have ever felt.
*No but seriously, doggy yoga was great. They had aromatherapy and played some sort of calming-dog CD and the room was dark and I taught her downward-facing dog. She really enjoyed it.
*Y'all, I broke my tailbone and was on crutches for over a month. The doctor said I did the most amount of damage that I could have possibly done without breaking anything. It still hurts. I have to lay around like a Roman.
~Wednesday, December 2, 2015
My Heart
My dog died.
The Femme Fatale was always a supporting character on my blog, rarely making appearances because she was an ever-present constant in my life. I've had her since I was 19; I was never an adult without her.
She got cancer. The things that we thought were not cancer turned out to be cancer. Last November she had an operation on her elbow to remove a soft-tissue tumor. Then in January, she had another operation to remove a growing fatty tumor on her hind leg. It turned out that the elbow cancer was more dangerous that the hind-leg cancer, but it was the latter that killed her.
I tried to take care of her. When she had elbow surgery, she had to be in a leg cast that prevented her from going up and down stairs for a month. I took time off work while she recovered. We live in a second floor walk-up, so we carried her up and down those stairs until she eventually figured out that she could use her cast as a launching pad.
Six weeks later we were back at the surgeon's office. Her hind leg kept growing and growing. She had surgery in 2009 to remove a fatty mass, and I thought this was the same thing. Cut out the mass and we'll be good to go. But the pathology came back stage 1 cancer, and it was impossible to get clean margins on the tumor without disfiguring her hip. I did not want to disfigure my senior dog. She was 14 and beyond her life expectancy. We hoped and prayed that the fatty tumor would take its time to grow back.
While the Femme Fatale healed, she became a brand new dog, sprinting around my dad's backyard. She acted like she was 2, not 14 and a half. But this wonderful last hurrah only lasted for a few months. The tumor came back, and because there was a fresh blood supply from the surgery, it came back faster. She was gone in 6 months.
It was terrible and it was traumatic and it still makes me cry. I did things and I saw things that I was not prepared for as a non-medical professional. The sight of blood still feels like a gunshot to my own heart. But I did them because I loved this dog. She was my heart.
I hoped every day that I would come home from work and find her gone so that I wouldn't have to make the life-ending decision. But neither life nor death works that way. I made Abraham call the vet because I couldn't and we loaded her into the car and she stuck her head out the window on the way there.
It's not fair.
The things you love should have to be there forever; they shouldn't be allowed to leave you. I changed without her. My heart was irreparably broken. I couldn't process stessors the way I normally could. I didn't realize how much I had relied on her for my own emotional well-being. I couldn't lay on the floor and stroke her fur. I would dream about her standing by my nightstand and begging for snacks they way she had only weeks before.
The response I received from my other pet-loving friends was the only thing that helped. A friend of my mom's went to the animal shelter the same day and bought every single dog there a Frosty Paw in the Femme Fatale's name. My work sent flowers, something they didn't even do when my grandparents died. A friend made a donation to a husky rescue in the Femme Fatale's name and sent me a shadow box to display her collar. Another friend sent a card with her picture on it. Another friend had a blanket made with pictures of her. I'm very lucky to have such thoughtful people in my life.
I don't want to end this on a depressing note, so I'll speed up the timeline. Two months later we went to a Petsmart to look at the "ugly" dogs as I called them at the time. "They aren't pretty, so I know we aren't getting one," I had told Abe at the time. But the husky rescue had one girl who looked just enough like the Femme Fatale but also was just different enough. A red husky, taller and leaner, with one blue eye and one hazel eye. One eye to see heaven and one eye to see earth. She came home with us the same day.
We honored the Femme Fatale's life by saving another dog's life. The new dog was an owner surrender to a high-kill shelter in Tennessee. She was pulled by a lady who worked there until a rescue could make room for her. I'm grateful for that lady.
The hole in my heart for the Femme Fatale isn't filled. I don't think it will ever be. She is the first love of my life. I still miss her every day and think about her every day. I wonder if the two dogs would have liked each other. Probably not; the Femme Fatale was very much an only dog. But it feels good to laugh again.
The Femme Fatale was always a supporting character on my blog, rarely making appearances because she was an ever-present constant in my life. I've had her since I was 19; I was never an adult without her.
She got cancer. The things that we thought were not cancer turned out to be cancer. Last November she had an operation on her elbow to remove a soft-tissue tumor. Then in January, she had another operation to remove a growing fatty tumor on her hind leg. It turned out that the elbow cancer was more dangerous that the hind-leg cancer, but it was the latter that killed her.
I tried to take care of her. When she had elbow surgery, she had to be in a leg cast that prevented her from going up and down stairs for a month. I took time off work while she recovered. We live in a second floor walk-up, so we carried her up and down those stairs until she eventually figured out that she could use her cast as a launching pad.
Six weeks later we were back at the surgeon's office. Her hind leg kept growing and growing. She had surgery in 2009 to remove a fatty mass, and I thought this was the same thing. Cut out the mass and we'll be good to go. But the pathology came back stage 1 cancer, and it was impossible to get clean margins on the tumor without disfiguring her hip. I did not want to disfigure my senior dog. She was 14 and beyond her life expectancy. We hoped and prayed that the fatty tumor would take its time to grow back.
While the Femme Fatale healed, she became a brand new dog, sprinting around my dad's backyard. She acted like she was 2, not 14 and a half. But this wonderful last hurrah only lasted for a few months. The tumor came back, and because there was a fresh blood supply from the surgery, it came back faster. She was gone in 6 months.
It was terrible and it was traumatic and it still makes me cry. I did things and I saw things that I was not prepared for as a non-medical professional. The sight of blood still feels like a gunshot to my own heart. But I did them because I loved this dog. She was my heart.
I hoped every day that I would come home from work and find her gone so that I wouldn't have to make the life-ending decision. But neither life nor death works that way. I made Abraham call the vet because I couldn't and we loaded her into the car and she stuck her head out the window on the way there.
It's not fair.
The things you love should have to be there forever; they shouldn't be allowed to leave you. I changed without her. My heart was irreparably broken. I couldn't process stessors the way I normally could. I didn't realize how much I had relied on her for my own emotional well-being. I couldn't lay on the floor and stroke her fur. I would dream about her standing by my nightstand and begging for snacks they way she had only weeks before.
The response I received from my other pet-loving friends was the only thing that helped. A friend of my mom's went to the animal shelter the same day and bought every single dog there a Frosty Paw in the Femme Fatale's name. My work sent flowers, something they didn't even do when my grandparents died. A friend made a donation to a husky rescue in the Femme Fatale's name and sent me a shadow box to display her collar. Another friend sent a card with her picture on it. Another friend had a blanket made with pictures of her. I'm very lucky to have such thoughtful people in my life.
I don't want to end this on a depressing note, so I'll speed up the timeline. Two months later we went to a Petsmart to look at the "ugly" dogs as I called them at the time. "They aren't pretty, so I know we aren't getting one," I had told Abe at the time. But the husky rescue had one girl who looked just enough like the Femme Fatale but also was just different enough. A red husky, taller and leaner, with one blue eye and one hazel eye. One eye to see heaven and one eye to see earth. She came home with us the same day.
We honored the Femme Fatale's life by saving another dog's life. The new dog was an owner surrender to a high-kill shelter in Tennessee. She was pulled by a lady who worked there until a rescue could make room for her. I'm grateful for that lady.
The hole in my heart for the Femme Fatale isn't filled. I don't think it will ever be. She is the first love of my life. I still miss her every day and think about her every day. I wonder if the two dogs would have liked each other. Probably not; the Femme Fatale was very much an only dog. But it feels good to laugh again.
~Wednesday, November 25, 2015
Basic
I don't know how it happened.
After hearing some statistic from a friend that Atlanta gets more rain per year than Seattle, I gave myself permission to buy new rain boots. I had grown tired of my wellies (they are too cumbersome to me) and wanted my old ones again. The boots I wore when I mucked out horse stalls as a teen. I did not realize that they were back in fashion and backordered until three years from now. But mine had arrived and I put them on, because it was Atlanta and it was raining.
Then I put on my leggings because anytime I wear elastic waist pants is a happier time for me.
And it was chilly. So I stopped at Starbucks, which was inside the grocery store where I was shopping. I wanted a hot black tea, mainly to hold because it was chilly, and sometimes to sip.
That's how it happened. I was grocery shopping in my LL Bean boots, leggings, and a little red Starbucks cup.
I was a basic bitch.
After hearing some statistic from a friend that Atlanta gets more rain per year than Seattle, I gave myself permission to buy new rain boots. I had grown tired of my wellies (they are too cumbersome to me) and wanted my old ones again. The boots I wore when I mucked out horse stalls as a teen. I did not realize that they were back in fashion and backordered until three years from now. But mine had arrived and I put them on, because it was Atlanta and it was raining.
Then I put on my leggings because anytime I wear elastic waist pants is a happier time for me.
And it was chilly. So I stopped at Starbucks, which was inside the grocery store where I was shopping. I wanted a hot black tea, mainly to hold because it was chilly, and sometimes to sip.
That's how it happened. I was grocery shopping in my LL Bean boots, leggings, and a little red Starbucks cup.
I was a basic bitch.
~Wednesday, January 7, 2015
In Love and War
At our final wedding of the year—wedding #8 for anyone who's counting—my friend Pam looked at me and said, "You know, statistically all of these marriages won't work out."
I was taken aback. Pam is the sweetest, kindest person I know. She always has a smile on her face and is always thinking of others. It was out of character for her to think so darkly. But the thought itself was also frightening. Pam was right.
"Yes, there's the statistic that half of marriages end in divorce, but it can also be broken down further. The younger you are when you marry for the first time is a factor. The divorce rate for first marriages in your thirties and forties is shockingly low."
I was referring to a TLC documentary I saw years ago called Sextistics: Your Love Life. The 51% divorce rate is true. However, if you get married in your forties, the divorce rate is 7%. Marriage in your thirties: 16%. And finally, marriage in your twenties: 77% divorce rate. I find a lot of comfort in these statistics.
Pam sipped her glass of champagne. "16%? That's still one of us."
I responded by being the mean girl. I speculated which one of us I thought it would be.
***
Abraham IMed me this morning when he got to work. He said he had sad news: friends of his announced that they were divorcing. Because they are Abe's friends, they are a little older than me. I like them; we just aren't super close because they don't live nearby. There's a little girl involved.
I put my head down on my desk and cried. I can't articulate why. Perhaps now that the weddings were over, the real work was starting. The love bubble had burst. Maybe it was that I knew how that little girl was going to grow up, and my heart was broken for her. It felt like the beginnings of an avalanche. This family is this the first. The first of others.
I was taken aback. Pam is the sweetest, kindest person I know. She always has a smile on her face and is always thinking of others. It was out of character for her to think so darkly. But the thought itself was also frightening. Pam was right.
"Yes, there's the statistic that half of marriages end in divorce, but it can also be broken down further. The younger you are when you marry for the first time is a factor. The divorce rate for first marriages in your thirties and forties is shockingly low."
I was referring to a TLC documentary I saw years ago called Sextistics: Your Love Life. The 51% divorce rate is true. However, if you get married in your forties, the divorce rate is 7%. Marriage in your thirties: 16%. And finally, marriage in your twenties: 77% divorce rate. I find a lot of comfort in these statistics.
Pam sipped her glass of champagne. "16%? That's still one of us."
I responded by being the mean girl. I speculated which one of us I thought it would be.
***
Abraham IMed me this morning when he got to work. He said he had sad news: friends of his announced that they were divorcing. Because they are Abe's friends, they are a little older than me. I like them; we just aren't super close because they don't live nearby. There's a little girl involved.
I put my head down on my desk and cried. I can't articulate why. Perhaps now that the weddings were over, the real work was starting. The love bubble had burst. Maybe it was that I knew how that little girl was going to grow up, and my heart was broken for her. It felt like the beginnings of an avalanche. This family is this the first. The first of others.
~Monday, December 15, 2014
Menobster
A quick Google search for "lobster menorah" does not disappoint, despite lobsters being not kosher. But I guess you wouldn't eat your menorah, would you?
May I present the Menobster:
Also the smugly funny Gloucester Clam reported on the World's Largest Lobster Pot Menorah in its article, Hanukkah: It's a Trap!:
May I present the Menobster:
He can be purchased from here.
Also the smugly funny Gloucester Clam reported on the World's Largest Lobster Pot Menorah in its article, Hanukkah: It's a Trap!:
Pun intended.
~Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Mr. Sparky, More Like Mr. Sparkless
My hands hurt.
My hands hurt because this reader and writer has been working with her hands. I have cuts and band-aids on the majority of my fingers. Swiping the iPhone has become an increasingly difficult task. But I've also gained confidence. I have trimmed windows and laid tile and I now know the difference between mortar and grout.
The last step to the kitchen remodel was to hang our new light fixtures that I bought eons ago. I made an appointment with Mr. Sparky, an electrician chain. Mr. Sparky quoted us $1,400 to replace working light fixtures with working light fixtures.
"The handyman I spoke to said he would do it for $200," I stammered.
"Yes, there is a market for handymen," Mr. Sparky replied. "Do you have a working smoke detector?"
Abraham--dear, sweet Abraham who doesn't know when people are being rude to him--chippered that yes, we do have a smoke detector.
"Does it have a new battery?"
"Well--" Abraham began.
"Yes," I interrupted. "It works great. And you just insulted us, so you can get out."
Mr. Sparky grabbed his tool box. "I hope you know a great architect who can rebuild your house after it burns down."
WHAT. I slammed the door on him. I cannot believe I invited this company into my home to have them treat me this way. I challenged him on his price and his go-to response was to tell me my house was going to burn down? Your house is supposed to be your safe haven from the outside world, and this company just trampled all over it. We are in our 30s--we will need electricians for about 60 more years--and Mr. Sparky just ensured that we will never use them or recommend them.
I was outraged. "WHO DOES THIS TRADE SCHOOL HIPPIE THINK HE IS?!" I shouted at Abraham. I ripped open the box to the track lighting. White wire connects to white wire. Black wire connects to black wire. Mr. Sparky can shove his $1,400 bill up his asshole.
"Please calm down." Abraham pleaded with me. "I don't want you messing with electrical work."
"I CAN DO ANYTHING I PUT MY MIND TO!" I was both antagonized and cocky. "I'M SMART. I CAN BE A DOCTOR OR A LAWYER. I CAN HANG THIS LIGHT FIXTURE."
"Just wait an hour before you start."
"STOP TELLING WHAT TO DO. I CAN DO ANYTHING I WANT."
I put the light fixture together. I flipped a breaker and dragged a small step ladder into the kitchen. I unscrewed the ceiling fan and started disconnecting wires as Abraham watched nervously. White from white. Black from black. I noticed the grounding wire was never connected to the box; I was already smarter than the person who installed this fan 20 years ago.
And then there was a blue wire. The blue wire was not in the single YouTube video I watched. And this blue wire was connected to the pull-chain that controlled the fan setting. The only way I could figure to detach this blue wire was to break the little plastic box it was inserted into. That or cut it with wire cutters, which we don't own.
Then I got a headache. I was hungry. It was 2 p.m. and I had cut the power off to the kitchen. I put those plastic toothpaste caps on all the exposed wires and flipped the breaker back on so I could make soup.
***
And that is the story of why we have had zero lighting in our kitchen for the last 5 days.
"Can we call the handyman now?" Abraham gently asked. "Or do you still want to do this yourself?"
My hands hurt because this reader and writer has been working with her hands. I have cuts and band-aids on the majority of my fingers. Swiping the iPhone has become an increasingly difficult task. But I've also gained confidence. I have trimmed windows and laid tile and I now know the difference between mortar and grout.
The last step to the kitchen remodel was to hang our new light fixtures that I bought eons ago. I made an appointment with Mr. Sparky, an electrician chain. Mr. Sparky quoted us $1,400 to replace working light fixtures with working light fixtures.
"The handyman I spoke to said he would do it for $200," I stammered.
"Yes, there is a market for handymen," Mr. Sparky replied. "Do you have a working smoke detector?"
Abraham--dear, sweet Abraham who doesn't know when people are being rude to him--chippered that yes, we do have a smoke detector.
"Does it have a new battery?"
"Well--" Abraham began.
"Yes," I interrupted. "It works great. And you just insulted us, so you can get out."
Mr. Sparky grabbed his tool box. "I hope you know a great architect who can rebuild your house after it burns down."
WHAT. I slammed the door on him. I cannot believe I invited this company into my home to have them treat me this way. I challenged him on his price and his go-to response was to tell me my house was going to burn down? Your house is supposed to be your safe haven from the outside world, and this company just trampled all over it. We are in our 30s--we will need electricians for about 60 more years--and Mr. Sparky just ensured that we will never use them or recommend them.
I was outraged. "WHO DOES THIS TRADE SCHOOL HIPPIE THINK HE IS?!" I shouted at Abraham. I ripped open the box to the track lighting. White wire connects to white wire. Black wire connects to black wire. Mr. Sparky can shove his $1,400 bill up his asshole.
"Please calm down." Abraham pleaded with me. "I don't want you messing with electrical work."
"I CAN DO ANYTHING I PUT MY MIND TO!" I was both antagonized and cocky. "I'M SMART. I CAN BE A DOCTOR OR A LAWYER. I CAN HANG THIS LIGHT FIXTURE."
"Just wait an hour before you start."
"STOP TELLING WHAT TO DO. I CAN DO ANYTHING I WANT."
I put the light fixture together. I flipped a breaker and dragged a small step ladder into the kitchen. I unscrewed the ceiling fan and started disconnecting wires as Abraham watched nervously. White from white. Black from black. I noticed the grounding wire was never connected to the box; I was already smarter than the person who installed this fan 20 years ago.
And then there was a blue wire. The blue wire was not in the single YouTube video I watched. And this blue wire was connected to the pull-chain that controlled the fan setting. The only way I could figure to detach this blue wire was to break the little plastic box it was inserted into. That or cut it with wire cutters, which we don't own.
Then I got a headache. I was hungry. It was 2 p.m. and I had cut the power off to the kitchen. I put those plastic toothpaste caps on all the exposed wires and flipped the breaker back on so I could make soup.
***
And that is the story of why we have had zero lighting in our kitchen for the last 5 days.
"Can we call the handyman now?" Abraham gently asked. "Or do you still want to do this yourself?"
~Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Everything but the Kitchen Sink
We lasted 30 days without plumbing in our kitchen. On Friday our contractor hung the remaining cabinets, installed our granite counter top, and hooked up our new sink and faucet. It felt surreal to sit in our new kitchen and eat Lucky Charms out of a paper bowl and see the changes. The kitchen should still be 32 years old, not days old.
When I was shopping for the the new kitchen, I was not shopping for me. I picked out whatever was the most popular style of cabinet and variety of granite to help the resale value of the condo. But my style is still present. Over the weekend we shopped for backsplash and lighting. I stared at tile after tile, hating everything. Everything looked cheap to me. The only thing I liked were stainless steel subway tiles, which is what we bought. At home Abraham took a square foot of tiles and held them up between the counter and the cabinets, and I think it looks really, really nice. These subway tiles are the only thing we paid full-price for; everything else we bargain shopped.
Abraham, my mom, and me craned our necks at the lighting options at Lowe's. I was insistent on track lighting because we desperately needed task lighting. We saw a model we all liked, but we couldn't find the box. An employee told us that the model had been discontinued long ago, but they never took down the fixture. My mother informed them that we would have no problem buying the display model, so the guy huffed up the ladder and unwired the fixture from the circuit. Then he gave us 60% off the cost. Another great deal for us.
As if we weren't gluttons enough for punishment, we went range shopping to try to get a Labor Day deal. I fell in love with a 5-burner, gas-operated Frigidaire convection oven. The prices weren't as low as I hoped for, but they did offer 36-month 0% interest on appliances. Abraham already had the store card, and I giggled when he financed the $770.00 oven for 36 months because it seems completely absurd.
Next on our list is to hire someone to install our light fixtures and beg my mother to come over and help us lay the tile for our backsplash. We also need to buy molding for the kitchen window to dress it up a bit. Then sometime in the future we need a new dishwasher, but I am so completely exhausted by this renovation that I am in no hurry. My 4-day weekend was spent in go mode. We haven't put our dishes away or set anything up yet; our entire kitchen is still on the floor of the guest bedroom. I am ready for everything to be done, but I am exhausted from putting in the work.
When I was shopping for the the new kitchen, I was not shopping for me. I picked out whatever was the most popular style of cabinet and variety of granite to help the resale value of the condo. But my style is still present. Over the weekend we shopped for backsplash and lighting. I stared at tile after tile, hating everything. Everything looked cheap to me. The only thing I liked were stainless steel subway tiles, which is what we bought. At home Abraham took a square foot of tiles and held them up between the counter and the cabinets, and I think it looks really, really nice. These subway tiles are the only thing we paid full-price for; everything else we bargain shopped.
Abraham, my mom, and me craned our necks at the lighting options at Lowe's. I was insistent on track lighting because we desperately needed task lighting. We saw a model we all liked, but we couldn't find the box. An employee told us that the model had been discontinued long ago, but they never took down the fixture. My mother informed them that we would have no problem buying the display model, so the guy huffed up the ladder and unwired the fixture from the circuit. Then he gave us 60% off the cost. Another great deal for us.
As if we weren't gluttons enough for punishment, we went range shopping to try to get a Labor Day deal. I fell in love with a 5-burner, gas-operated Frigidaire convection oven. The prices weren't as low as I hoped for, but they did offer 36-month 0% interest on appliances. Abraham already had the store card, and I giggled when he financed the $770.00 oven for 36 months because it seems completely absurd.
Next on our list is to hire someone to install our light fixtures and beg my mother to come over and help us lay the tile for our backsplash. We also need to buy molding for the kitchen window to dress it up a bit. Then sometime in the future we need a new dishwasher, but I am so completely exhausted by this renovation that I am in no hurry. My 4-day weekend was spent in go mode. We haven't put our dishes away or set anything up yet; our entire kitchen is still on the floor of the guest bedroom. I am ready for everything to be done, but I am exhausted from putting in the work.
~Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Hello, is it me you are looking for
I'm here, I still read blogs every week day, but I've just become more of a lurker. I've spent this year reading like a maniac. I've read over 30 books so far, which I feel has made me more passive: reading instead of writing. Lurking instead of commenting. It's a lot less effort.
I've also been knitting most nights of the week. It's meditation to me. I kept my promise when I wrote that I was going to maximize my savings and spend the rest on yarn. I'm adding hand-dyed wool skeins to my stash about every two weeks, which is a heck of a lot faster than I knit. And when I lost some of my knitting needles in the move last year, I bought all new wood sets. I found a wood table beside a dumpster one day: a nice table that had folding leaves on either side. It just needed a little TLC. I immediately loaded it into my car and took it home. I painted it silver. Now I have my very own craft corner in the spare bedroom. It makes me happy to have my own space.
I never heard the term "DINK" before a couple a weeks ago. Dual Income, No Kids. Abraham and I took our DINK money and are renovating our kitchen. Abraham's condo is a year younger than I am and has never been updated. We are getting new wood cabinets to maximize the small kitchen space and granite counter tops. We are also upgrading the sink and faucet; we haven't made a decision about the oven and dishwasher yet, but we feel it's probably not far behind. So far we've been without a kitchen for 20 days and counting, but we're hoping it will be done by September. We sacrificed time in favor of cost savings. (We also sacrificed a little customer service in favor of cost savings.) And genius me asked the contractor to save some of our old wood cabinets to put up in our laundry room, so the laundry room is getting a free upgrade as well.
And all of this is still less stressful than planning a wedding! We still have four more weddings this year, and I'm a bridesmaid in Mel's and Jenna's. By February of next year every single member of my friend group will be married. It really did happen that quickly.
I'd like get away for a weekend with Abraham. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in plans and events that I feel we haven't had a lot of time to ourselves. I'm thinking Charleston, since Abraham has never been. But a part of me also really wants to go to Gatlinburg, Tennessee. There is a ton to do there, including Dollywood. Dolly Parton has a theme park and I've never been. In the next six months we already have trips planned for Chicago and Nashville and another cruise through the Caribbean.
I've slowly been working through the conversion process to Judaism. When a friend found out I was converting, she confided to me that she's always felt like she should be Jewish, even when she was little. My story gave her the confidence to begin her own conversion. We are going through different rabbis and synagogues, so our experiences are very different. She also has a partner and a child who aren't Jewish, so she's going through some difficulties that I'm not. The other day someone made a Jewish joke that I understood and Abraham didn't, and I was so proud of myself. So I feel like my studies have been effective thus far.
The Femme Fatale, my beloved Siberian Husky, is beginning to show signs of age. She's 13.5 years old, and I've started her on glucosamine for the touch of arthritis she has in her hind legs. I always cheer for her when she treks up stairs now. She also has two lumps: one lipoma on her hind leg and one soft tissue lump on her front elbow. Neither are cancer or bother her, so I don't want to put her through so many surgeries. She's still happy and plays and loves to eat and go for walks, and I hope she stays that way.
So that's what I've been up to. I started a couple of blog posts about the wedding itself. Maybe I'll get around to those one day.
I've also been knitting most nights of the week. It's meditation to me. I kept my promise when I wrote that I was going to maximize my savings and spend the rest on yarn. I'm adding hand-dyed wool skeins to my stash about every two weeks, which is a heck of a lot faster than I knit. And when I lost some of my knitting needles in the move last year, I bought all new wood sets. I found a wood table beside a dumpster one day: a nice table that had folding leaves on either side. It just needed a little TLC. I immediately loaded it into my car and took it home. I painted it silver. Now I have my very own craft corner in the spare bedroom. It makes me happy to have my own space.
I never heard the term "DINK" before a couple a weeks ago. Dual Income, No Kids. Abraham and I took our DINK money and are renovating our kitchen. Abraham's condo is a year younger than I am and has never been updated. We are getting new wood cabinets to maximize the small kitchen space and granite counter tops. We are also upgrading the sink and faucet; we haven't made a decision about the oven and dishwasher yet, but we feel it's probably not far behind. So far we've been without a kitchen for 20 days and counting, but we're hoping it will be done by September. We sacrificed time in favor of cost savings. (We also sacrificed a little customer service in favor of cost savings.) And genius me asked the contractor to save some of our old wood cabinets to put up in our laundry room, so the laundry room is getting a free upgrade as well.
And all of this is still less stressful than planning a wedding! We still have four more weddings this year, and I'm a bridesmaid in Mel's and Jenna's. By February of next year every single member of my friend group will be married. It really did happen that quickly.
I'd like get away for a weekend with Abraham. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in plans and events that I feel we haven't had a lot of time to ourselves. I'm thinking Charleston, since Abraham has never been. But a part of me also really wants to go to Gatlinburg, Tennessee. There is a ton to do there, including Dollywood. Dolly Parton has a theme park and I've never been. In the next six months we already have trips planned for Chicago and Nashville and another cruise through the Caribbean.
I've slowly been working through the conversion process to Judaism. When a friend found out I was converting, she confided to me that she's always felt like she should be Jewish, even when she was little. My story gave her the confidence to begin her own conversion. We are going through different rabbis and synagogues, so our experiences are very different. She also has a partner and a child who aren't Jewish, so she's going through some difficulties that I'm not. The other day someone made a Jewish joke that I understood and Abraham didn't, and I was so proud of myself. So I feel like my studies have been effective thus far.
The Femme Fatale, my beloved Siberian Husky, is beginning to show signs of age. She's 13.5 years old, and I've started her on glucosamine for the touch of arthritis she has in her hind legs. I always cheer for her when she treks up stairs now. She also has two lumps: one lipoma on her hind leg and one soft tissue lump on her front elbow. Neither are cancer or bother her, so I don't want to put her through so many surgeries. She's still happy and plays and loves to eat and go for walks, and I hope she stays that way.
So that's what I've been up to. I started a couple of blog posts about the wedding itself. Maybe I'll get around to those one day.
~Thursday, May 15, 2014
Safe and Sound
Auth note: I had originally written this in October 2013, but I didn't publish it because I thought I was being morose or overly dramatic. Then during Passover, a man affiliated with the KKK walked into a Jewish community center in Kansas city and killed two people. Then he crossed the street and entered a Jewish assisted-living center and killed another person. My brother-in-law knew people trapped inside the JCC during the shooting. I no longer feel dramatic, just sickened.
There is this man who lives adjacent to Abraham and me. This man regularly dresses like Uncle Sam and stands on the side of the road with a JESUS LOVES YOU sign. All he does is wave, point to the person driving, and point to the sign. Jesus loves you!
It's hard to reconcile when you've decided to convert to Judaism.
I'm terrfied for the day when he points to me and then points to his sign. I'm afraid for the day I'll have to say no thanks. And I'm afraid for the look on his face when he learns that he lives next to a couple of Jews.
I think he'll be okay. He preaches love. He's always smiling and waving at the mailbox. Abraham is annoyed by him, but I think the world could use more of him. People whose primary message is love.
He's not like the preachers who would stand on corners of my college campus with signs that told us all we were going to hell. That man would point to a girl wearing a spaghetti-strapped shirt on a hot, spring day, point to his Bible, and condemn her to hell for dressing like a prostitute. The girl kept her head down as she hurried to higher education, her bookbag pounding against her back.
As a Christian I was incensed by this man. I wanted to run up to him and shove him. Yes, an eye for an eye, but did he stop reading the Bible he was thumping before he got to the New Testament? Did he not know about love and acceptance? Jesus dined with a prostitute.
Safety was an early discussion at my Derech Torah class. "We live in a post-9/11 world," the rabbi teaching the class warned us. Synagogues hire armed police to protect Jews as they attend High Holiday services. The building that houses our class is behind an 8-foot tall fence with a security gate with a security guard with surveillance cameras and buzzed entry into the building with a sign-in desk. Their budget could afford heightened security or mezuzahs (a religious symbol) on every door; they forwent the religious symbol. When we met with a rabbi to see if he would marry us, once again we had to appear on video cameras and get buzzed into the synagogue. The doors are always locked.
Abraham doesn't think much of this because it's what he's always known. For me though, it's alarming. I never thought twice about Easter or Christmas services--I'm not even sure I locked the car doors--but now I smile politely at the man with the gun as I enter the doors of a synagogue. Who would want to hurt a bunch of people minding their own business?
I felt threatened by the men with the signs on my college campus when, in the broadest sense of the term, I was one of them.
What would they do to me now?
There is this man who lives adjacent to Abraham and me. This man regularly dresses like Uncle Sam and stands on the side of the road with a JESUS LOVES YOU sign. All he does is wave, point to the person driving, and point to the sign. Jesus loves you!
It's hard to reconcile when you've decided to convert to Judaism.
I'm terrfied for the day when he points to me and then points to his sign. I'm afraid for the day I'll have to say no thanks. And I'm afraid for the look on his face when he learns that he lives next to a couple of Jews.
I think he'll be okay. He preaches love. He's always smiling and waving at the mailbox. Abraham is annoyed by him, but I think the world could use more of him. People whose primary message is love.
He's not like the preachers who would stand on corners of my college campus with signs that told us all we were going to hell. That man would point to a girl wearing a spaghetti-strapped shirt on a hot, spring day, point to his Bible, and condemn her to hell for dressing like a prostitute. The girl kept her head down as she hurried to higher education, her bookbag pounding against her back.
As a Christian I was incensed by this man. I wanted to run up to him and shove him. Yes, an eye for an eye, but did he stop reading the Bible he was thumping before he got to the New Testament? Did he not know about love and acceptance? Jesus dined with a prostitute.
Safety was an early discussion at my Derech Torah class. "We live in a post-9/11 world," the rabbi teaching the class warned us. Synagogues hire armed police to protect Jews as they attend High Holiday services. The building that houses our class is behind an 8-foot tall fence with a security gate with a security guard with surveillance cameras and buzzed entry into the building with a sign-in desk. Their budget could afford heightened security or mezuzahs (a religious symbol) on every door; they forwent the religious symbol. When we met with a rabbi to see if he would marry us, once again we had to appear on video cameras and get buzzed into the synagogue. The doors are always locked.
Abraham doesn't think much of this because it's what he's always known. For me though, it's alarming. I never thought twice about Easter or Christmas services--I'm not even sure I locked the car doors--but now I smile politely at the man with the gun as I enter the doors of a synagogue. Who would want to hurt a bunch of people minding their own business?
I felt threatened by the men with the signs on my college campus when, in the broadest sense of the term, I was one of them.
What would they do to me now?
~Monday, April 21, 2014
Rx
Got my laboratory results back from my doctor. I am completely 100% healthy.
Healthy and cold and exhausted. Yay.
~Monday, April 7, 2014
A Pretty Penny
I looked at my bills this month and smiled. SMILED. Because for the first time in about 10 years, I'm feeling a little financially flush. I worked hard and paid off my car a year early. I carry no credit card debt. The new bedroom set I bought when I moved in with Abraham is now paid off. And the wedding has passed, which feels like the biggest cha-ching.
So what now?
The first thing I did was check my savings and retirement contributions and made sure I was contributing 10% of my income to each. My savings did take a hit during the last year, so I'd like to replace the funds in that account. I never let my retirement slack, so I'm in good shape there. I also called my stockbroker and invested about $4,000 of an old inheritance. We lived the good life on our honeymoon, and I'm anxious to ditch working for a living and feast in Mexico, ASAP.
I also bought all of the things. The honeymoon was the final nail in the coffin for my beautiful 10-year-old luggage, so I spent $300 on new ones: dazzling bags on wheels in pinks and purples. I managed to get through last summer with three pairs of shoes, including one pair of flip-flops, so I rewarded myself by doubling the amount of summer shoes: Leather-strapped Born's and crocheted Toms' and work flats from Loft. Throw in two new dresses from Forever 21 because I just can't quit it.
I like shopping, I feel good when I shop, but I don't want to be burdened with material objects. I don't want to work to maintain my possessions. I think I'm at the point where I would like a few high quality items instead a bunch of little things. I am a professional of the little things though, and Amazon and Forever 21 know it.
I think the answer to my dilemma is to increase my savings contributions: maybe aim for 15 - 25% instead of 10%. Maybe maximize my Roth to the limit of $5,500. Start a house-repair fund, a child fund, a vacation fund, a something fund.
But I'm worried because I am so good at shopping, and I know what fun it is. I'm giddy when I open a box of sock yarns that I purchased and I fondle the soft skeins in brilliant colors. To me, that is a high.
I'm at such a rare point in my life, and I don't want to squander the opportunity. How do you balance a Pinterest life with a sound life that is financially secure? And if I do save 30% of my income, can I spend the remaining 70% on yarn and dresses?
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