Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Closer to the Heart
On May 20th of last year, we returned home after being away for 101 days. This year on May 20th, we left home, but only to be away for three days. Nori’s PDA valve never closed on its own, so we went to the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia for the “catheterization” as they called it.
We set up base camp at Bryan’s parents’ house. Nonna attentively filled her home with all the things she knew we would need but would never request such as a crib for each baby, all their specific brand (I can be a little brand specific) baby products, and, of course, 7 different kinds of milk: Whole organic milk for Nori, Lactaid whole milk for Charlie, half and half for Bryan and Skim Plus for me, as well as the milk Nonna and Poppy normally drink. I love that Nonna silently subscribes to my nuttiness (literally nutty, what with my love of whole grain goodness) without making me ask for anything, as if the asking would reveal the self-verification of my craziness. Sure, I could have lived without Skim Plus for three days, but Nonna knew it would make each difficult day a little bit easier if I could pour my milk on Blueberry Khashi and in my coffee. It did.
Charlie stayed and received the royal treatment while Bryan and I shuttled Nori back and forth to the hospital. On the first day, Nori had preliminary testing: blood work, a brief physical, and an Echocardiogram. The staff at CHOP was amazing-clearly a staff that specializes in children. The only part that went a little long was the echo, but Nori was a pro, leaning back on a pillow, dressed only in her diaper, watching Elmo and eating cheese and waffles, six leads coming from her chest, while the tech rubbed her belly with jelly and an echo wand. Later on, she did not even make a peep, really not a sound, when her blood was drawn. She stared at her blood going in to the vial and gave the phlebotomist a look that said, “Bring it on.” That night Bryan and I were treated to a night out to dinner followed by ice cream-a much needed date night.
The next day we arrived at CHOP at 7:30 am. Nori went in at 9:00 am (I cried, she didn’t) and was done by 12:00pm. She had to lie flat for a few hours to rest and then we left the hospital by 5:00. We arrived back at Nonna and Poppy’s by 7:00, where Nori promptly hopped out of her car seat and began playing. Bryan and I were spent, but she was ready to go-what with the five hours of lying down and all. Amazing.
We set up base camp at Bryan’s parents’ house. Nonna attentively filled her home with all the things she knew we would need but would never request such as a crib for each baby, all their specific brand (I can be a little brand specific) baby products, and, of course, 7 different kinds of milk: Whole organic milk for Nori, Lactaid whole milk for Charlie, half and half for Bryan and Skim Plus for me, as well as the milk Nonna and Poppy normally drink. I love that Nonna silently subscribes to my nuttiness (literally nutty, what with my love of whole grain goodness) without making me ask for anything, as if the asking would reveal the self-verification of my craziness. Sure, I could have lived without Skim Plus for three days, but Nonna knew it would make each difficult day a little bit easier if I could pour my milk on Blueberry Khashi and in my coffee. It did.
Charlie stayed and received the royal treatment while Bryan and I shuttled Nori back and forth to the hospital. On the first day, Nori had preliminary testing: blood work, a brief physical, and an Echocardiogram. The staff at CHOP was amazing-clearly a staff that specializes in children. The only part that went a little long was the echo, but Nori was a pro, leaning back on a pillow, dressed only in her diaper, watching Elmo and eating cheese and waffles, six leads coming from her chest, while the tech rubbed her belly with jelly and an echo wand. Later on, she did not even make a peep, really not a sound, when her blood was drawn. She stared at her blood going in to the vial and gave the phlebotomist a look that said, “Bring it on.” That night Bryan and I were treated to a night out to dinner followed by ice cream-a much needed date night.
The next day we arrived at CHOP at 7:30 am. Nori went in at 9:00 am (I cried, she didn’t) and was done by 12:00pm. She had to lie flat for a few hours to rest and then we left the hospital by 5:00. We arrived back at Nonna and Poppy’s by 7:00, where Nori promptly hopped out of her car seat and began playing. Bryan and I were spent, but she was ready to go-what with the five hours of lying down and all. Amazing.
So yet another health hurdle conquered. Where do we get off being so blessed? I am working on ways to express my gratitude but nothing seems comparable to the gifts I am given.
Can't Find My Way Home
May 19, 2009
Today was the memorial service for my friend Jennifer Hoffman. It feels strange to refer to her that way since she has always been just Jen for as long as I have known her. Her battle with cancer, one she had been winning for seven years, came to a bitter fight Easter weekend and ended on April 21, 2009. She was my high school friend, part of a group of us, fiercely loyal and true. Most of us stayed geographically close, but Jen ventured to Phoenix. I would see her yearly as Bryan’s business trips would take us there, but I have missed my annual visits for the past two years. I am not going to say that I regret not seeing her during these last two years of her life because 1), I never thought she would die and 2) she never thought she would either. Our last dinner together ended with a toast with chocolate martinis-her request-a strange one since she was always calorie conscience. She was radiant with accomplishment, having just run the Rock and Roll Marathon that day, and bursting with love, sitting beside her fiancé, whom I met for the first time that night. I like remembering her that way, sitting across from me, eyes happy and lazy with alcohol, smiling ear to ear. Six months later, I texted her from New Orleans because the group I was with had just ordered a round of chocolate martini’s and I could not drink mine without toasting her.
One month after that, I emailed her from Santa Fe, New Mexico, where she and Greg were married that past spring. She said to have a chocolate martini for her and that her cancer was back.
I thought today’s service would bring closure but somehow it just made things feel so real, so sad. I said to one of my closest friends that sometimes the benefit of having experienced deep grief is that it somehow prepares you to survive future grief. It does not make it easier, but somehow it helps the perspective.
I miss her in a way I didn’t expect to. The song (Eric Clapton, I think), "Can’t Find My Way Home," must have been on a mix tape in Jen’s blue Toyata, circa 1989. Anytime I hear it I think of her. The lyrics to the song seem a little ironic now. Jen was never too wasted to find her way home, she just found home in other places, something I admire about her. She held the key.
Jen’s blog (laceupyourgloves. blogspot.com) inspired me and her comments enriched my writing. I thought she should have a shout out in Nori and Charlie’s blog because her spirit helped us through those rough first months and continues to remind me about the things that really matter.
Today was the memorial service for my friend Jennifer Hoffman. It feels strange to refer to her that way since she has always been just Jen for as long as I have known her. Her battle with cancer, one she had been winning for seven years, came to a bitter fight Easter weekend and ended on April 21, 2009. She was my high school friend, part of a group of us, fiercely loyal and true. Most of us stayed geographically close, but Jen ventured to Phoenix. I would see her yearly as Bryan’s business trips would take us there, but I have missed my annual visits for the past two years. I am not going to say that I regret not seeing her during these last two years of her life because 1), I never thought she would die and 2) she never thought she would either. Our last dinner together ended with a toast with chocolate martinis-her request-a strange one since she was always calorie conscience. She was radiant with accomplishment, having just run the Rock and Roll Marathon that day, and bursting with love, sitting beside her fiancé, whom I met for the first time that night. I like remembering her that way, sitting across from me, eyes happy and lazy with alcohol, smiling ear to ear. Six months later, I texted her from New Orleans because the group I was with had just ordered a round of chocolate martini’s and I could not drink mine without toasting her.
One month after that, I emailed her from Santa Fe, New Mexico, where she and Greg were married that past spring. She said to have a chocolate martini for her and that her cancer was back.
I thought today’s service would bring closure but somehow it just made things feel so real, so sad. I said to one of my closest friends that sometimes the benefit of having experienced deep grief is that it somehow prepares you to survive future grief. It does not make it easier, but somehow it helps the perspective.
I miss her in a way I didn’t expect to. The song (Eric Clapton, I think), "Can’t Find My Way Home," must have been on a mix tape in Jen’s blue Toyata, circa 1989. Anytime I hear it I think of her. The lyrics to the song seem a little ironic now. Jen was never too wasted to find her way home, she just found home in other places, something I admire about her. She held the key.
Jen’s blog (laceupyourgloves. blogspot.com) inspired me and her comments enriched my writing. I thought she should have a shout out in Nori and Charlie’s blog because her spirit helped us through those rough first months and continues to remind me about the things that really matter.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Heavy Hand-me-Downs
My clothing must have memory. I just sorted through my maternity clothes, meticulously choosing pieces for my newly pregnant friend. I came down from the attic to calm a naptime nightmare from Nori and decided to take a break and make some lunch. I suddenly found myself crying at the kitchen counter, completely confounded at the source of my emotional breakdown. After a little reflection, I realized what it was.
The crated clothing was a chronology of my pregnancy and the months that followed. There was the box of clothing I thought I would never wear because how could I possibly get that big. Then the box of things that fit for the first three months, that I remember looking at, month-four, thinking I would not be able to even get it over my head. Next was the pile of bed rest loungewear; part pajama, part perinatologist prêt a Porte. Then there was the box of things I wore for the three months after the babies were born. In the haze that accompanies a dream that one might have had days ago, I see myself in the Tampa Old Navy, purchasing maternity pants, in denial, perhaps, that I as no longer pregnant. I may have even told the check out girl that my due date was May 13. I needed clothes that would fit the Florida climate and me. Both seemed to not fit me well at all. I wore the same three pairs of pants in rotation for 96 days. It did not matter what I wore because I covered up each day in yellow pliable plastic, protecting my babies from the contamination that may come from my clothes. Now these clothes are contaminated with those memories.
I stopped myself from running back up in the attic and throwing these clothes away, maybe even setting them on fire to destroy their history. Maybe they needed a new memory. Maybe if these clothes experienced a happy pregnancy some of their sadness would be wiped away. The promise of a new life from my friend is a reason to spring clean, to start a fresh and to reassign the sad things to a different place.
Nori is going to CHOP next week to have her PDA valve repaired. (This could also be a trigger for my weeping state!) According to the cardiologist, this is a routine same-day surgery. Being in a hospital with Nori is not a routine that I would like to get into again.
The crated clothing was a chronology of my pregnancy and the months that followed. There was the box of clothing I thought I would never wear because how could I possibly get that big. Then the box of things that fit for the first three months, that I remember looking at, month-four, thinking I would not be able to even get it over my head. Next was the pile of bed rest loungewear; part pajama, part perinatologist prêt a Porte. Then there was the box of things I wore for the three months after the babies were born. In the haze that accompanies a dream that one might have had days ago, I see myself in the Tampa Old Navy, purchasing maternity pants, in denial, perhaps, that I as no longer pregnant. I may have even told the check out girl that my due date was May 13. I needed clothes that would fit the Florida climate and me. Both seemed to not fit me well at all. I wore the same three pairs of pants in rotation for 96 days. It did not matter what I wore because I covered up each day in yellow pliable plastic, protecting my babies from the contamination that may come from my clothes. Now these clothes are contaminated with those memories.
I stopped myself from running back up in the attic and throwing these clothes away, maybe even setting them on fire to destroy their history. Maybe they needed a new memory. Maybe if these clothes experienced a happy pregnancy some of their sadness would be wiped away. The promise of a new life from my friend is a reason to spring clean, to start a fresh and to reassign the sad things to a different place.
Nori is going to CHOP next week to have her PDA valve repaired. (This could also be a trigger for my weeping state!) According to the cardiologist, this is a routine same-day surgery. Being in a hospital with Nori is not a routine that I would like to get into again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)