11/16/2010

Dearest, loveliest, sweetest most confounding baby,

Happy birthday, son. Today you turn two. Today you embark upon your third year tucked up deep inside my heart & guts. The day you were born was strange and wonderful as we all knew it would be. Windy and warm and submerged in fluid. So much fluid. And then there you were: purple, motionless and HUGE. Within seconds, you were wailing, I was wailing and our adventure began.

Two years later, you are loving, tiny and endlessly sweet and trusting. Aside from your size, you haven't changed a bit. You have always been Lincoln. And you always will be.

I try and try and try to take the beautiful advice that we haven't lost a thing; that that imagined boy never existed. That it's been you all along. It's hard, though. Hard.

Maybe next year I'll tell you that I've stopped crying every day. Maybe next year I'll be braver, calmer and less itching for a fight. Maybe next year I will be closer to having figured out how to make my world smaller yet more infinite at the same time. Maybe next year, maybe next year.

I love you, Link and maybe next year you'll be able to say it back to me.

The unkindest cut of all

Yesterday morning I had a patient for about an hour post-partum. Lovely woman with the purest, sweetest smile. I walked in to meet her and found her baby ravenous at her breast, cooing in between gulps.

I read in her chart that she was from Somalia and while I wanted to ask her how she came to be in the States, it just never came up.

When the babe was whisked away to the nursery for his bath, it was time to get my peaceful, happy patient up to the bathroom to pee, change her gown and get washed up.

I'm a bit of an over-achiever when it comes to assessing perineums after delivery. While the mom is perched on the toilet, I hunker down like Johnny Bench with my peri-bottle filled with warm water and get a good look at the situation. Holy-fucking-bat-shit-craziness-from-hell. I was not prepared for what I saw. Was. Not. Prepared.

The nurse I got report from is a bit of a dolt and often leaves out pertinent pieces of information. I know this, so I am always geared up to do extra work when I take over on of her patients.

Yesterday, though? Yesterday I wanted to reach out and punch that nurse square in her face for neglecting to tell me that this woman had been subjected to a full, radical, female circumcision.

I wanted to curl up and cry right there on the bathroom floor. I'll never, never forget it.

Listen Up!

While we were in Sacramento at MIND one thing we got confirmation on and learned way more in-depth about is Link's speech delay.

Fragile X'ers have difficulty speaking for a variety of reasons:
~Their loose connective tissue can make it hard for them to move their mouths correctly to form sounds
~They can have a highly arched hard palette; also causing problems with sound formation
~The over excitability in their brains makes learning in general, very, very hard. Speech often takes a back seat

We learned that Link, at 22 months and 2 words, is very, very advanced. We were told to embrace the fact that this is considered "verbal" in the Fragile X world. We also learned that by age 3, we can expect him to have 10 words. And if he's lucky, he'll be mildly conversational by age 7. Speech development and anxiety are the two biggest factors in assisting young Fragile X'ers with keeping the IQ gap between themselves and typical children as narrow as possible.

Our boy has been getting speech therapy since 9 months of age. And about 3 months ago we incorporated some sign language. Out at MIND they stressed hitting speech hard and heavy. They said up the sign language. They said to use something called "prompting" to help him form sounds. And they also recommend medications. 4 of them.

Within a few days of being home, Lincoln's grandma Jeanne had a "Baby Signing Time" video in our mailbox and a little over a week ago we started the boy on one of his meds.

Today, while he was eating his snack he looked over at me and perfectly and precisely did the sign for "more".

Look out, people. The sweet Mr. Buddy is making his needs known. HALLELUJAH!

23 Months Old

I feel safe in confirming to the world wide internets that my boy has decided that walking around, getting from here to there on two feet, ain't no thang.

It's been two days. He ambulates like a belly dancer, arms swaying, abdomen driving the train, gut-wrenchingly sweet.

Vanilla Sky

So there was a part of our visit (mine and Link's and my mother in law, Diane's) out to Sacramento that I was not entirely prepared for.

There were so many balls in the air for this trip. So much planning, wanting, waiting. There were messed up travel plans, missed flights, insurance snafus, incompetent office staffers. I was wound so tight to make this happen for Lincoln, for us, that I was wholly caught off guard for the parts that were about me. ME.

Since my son has an X-linked genetic disorder, he got it from me. ME. Simply, I am a carrier. I've known that rationally since we got Link's diagnosis. I never really felt it emotionally until now.

Why I have anxiety, depression? Why I worry? Why I feel overwhelmed and have a hard time coping? Why I have always, always had a hard time reading diagrams and understanding things like floor plans for fucks-sake? Fragile X, that's why. Why my father was so reclusive, quick to anger & not very bright? Fragile X.

I'm not supposed to wallow. I don't want to wallow. But I'm still crying almost every day. Usually just a little bit... in the car, alone.

Not supposed to think about what could have been, just what is.

But. BUT. B U T! If I had known sooner. If. IF. I F!

I feel like I ruined my son's life and I fucked up Penelope. I want these musings to go away and find a nice tidy home in hell where they belong.

They took my blood out in CA and I sit and I wait for the results of my affectation with Fragile X. I imagine the various outcomes and try to apply some sense to my life (MY LIFE. ME. SELFISH BITCH.) with each one. My gut is that I have a full mutation on one of my chromosomes. My gut is that me and my baby boy are the same. My gut is that I have lived for 40 years as one thing and I'm about to find out that that thing never existed.

Not my best friend.

I have this really ugly side. As the years have come and gone, I've realized that a lot of humans share this trait so I don't feel particularly unique about it anymore. And I'm not surprised when I encounter it in its various unexpected forms.

For me, something that hasn't changed over time is that I still can't squish the motherfucker down my gullet far enough. The nasty dog crawls its shit stained, piss-soaked tail out of my guts more often then I would like.

This, I believe, is the crux of my unhappiness. Of my depression. When I subdue the dog, I live and don't question myself. I feel good. When the dogs chews threw its leash and bites off its own leg and growls through my psyche, I feel very, very un-good. Phony. Pretend. Like the dream when you take the stage for the recital but you've never rehearsed one step. I know the audience can tell I'm a fraud, but I keep dancing anyway chasing that fucking dog back into its cage.

The kindness of strangeness

The Witnesses came by today. In their street clothes. That means it was an informal, unofficial visit. And they came to bring Lincoln a gift. This really cool, really tacky, bouncy/twisty/rocking horse thing that interacts with the TV. They thought about it a lot and thought it would be good for him. It is. And as much as I bitch, I do still truly believe there are a lot more good people out there than shitty people. And NO, none of that means that I am suddenly willing to accept Jesus Christ as my personal savior. Resume breathing.

Oh! P.S. HUGE P.S. When Witness Girl (she's married and she's a nurse, she's a woman, but she's so cute and adorable and the size of an Olsen twin that I must call her "girl") bent over to help put together crazyrockingpony, her rather adorable and dare I say *racy* panties poked out over her waistband. And I stared. The End.

Yes, it bothers me that much

So here's what bothers me about using the word "retard" and any of it's variations as insult, adjective or exclamation (please forward to all of your "but I'm an equal opportunity offender!" types):

When you use that word, the people who you are offending the most aren't likely to realize what you're doing and therefore can't defend themselves or respond appropriately to your assholedness. So, if you are a coward, press on! I'll be looking for you. If you'd like to change and grow a bit, find A NEW WORD.

U. G. L. Y.

This is the worst I've felt in a million years. Make that a million and a half. I am angry at everyone and everything. My mind is racing over everything that I fucked up today that I half did, half remembered, planned wrong.

I screamed in the car all the way home. Well, not all the way, just from when the fucking change oil light came on after the ABS light came on. The oil just got changed! The brakes suck! I can't take the car in tomorrow! I can't be stuck in a car dealership with 3 kids all day. I need to get Ruby her school supplies. I need to make phone calls for Link, to get a new script for his new OT, to be home for his OT appointment!

The screaming didn't feel very good. It was freaky and loud but that didn't stop me. I wanted my throat to come out of my mouth, for my insides to come outside and look as twisted as I feel right now. I wanted physical evidence besides my dark circles, grey hair and sagging gut that I feel BAD.

Link is crying up in his bed and I've told the girls to leave me alone. Nice. I can't scream in the house and I can't break anything and for now, my insides are still in.

Cape Cod. Part II

Despite the raggedy-bitch-episode, the ice cream was so nice, we had it twice.

We shopped for toys, touristy sweatshirts and ate lobster quesadilla. Lincoln ate sand, barked at seagulls and guzzled salt water. He stood for 4 seconds on his own, smiled for the camera (on command) and fell in love with Roxy the dog.

Penelope fell into the deep-end of the pool, fully clothed and did not freak out. I repeat: DID NOT FREAK OUT. She laid down in the waves and filled her bathing suit with the ocean floor. She hugged her cousins with abandon and rocked out with Maggie to Taylor Swift.

Ruby took the lead, swam like a fish and snuck cookies like a 10 year old should. She tanned her face, walked on the beach at night and saw shooting stars.

And I got to enjoy the sturdy, easy comforts of my cousins and their amazing & beautiful children.

New but not improved

I'm changing. While Lincoln inspires restraint and calm and patience in me, the rest of the world is driving me insane.

I'm angry, uncooperative and quick to rile. Stress at work has finally given me my second panic attack (at least I recognized it early this time, locked myself in the bathroom, cried and got some texting therapy from the hot husband).

I find myself looking for ways out all day long. It's hard and getting harder.

Last night, a pompous prick of a baby-daddy started a fight with me and I fought back. I was yelling in my patient's room telling him he was rude and disrespectful and embarrassing himself. My pulse went up, but I never felt afraid. If another nurse hadn't heard the exchange, I probably wouldn't have said anything to anyone. This is not familiar behavior for me.

We keep losing babies at work. We almost lost a mother. Going there so much is not helping. It's not good there. NOT GOOD.

I want to sleep for a thousand years and then wake up, have a pee, and go back to sleep for another thousand.

Cape Cod. Part I

Lincoln shrieks now. SHRIIIIEEEEEKS. Mostly when he's tired. Sometimes when he's overwhelmed. Occasionally when he's hot or hungry. Hard telling, though. Kid can't talk, so we guess.

Anyway, when the very pregnant woman walked into the very crowded ice cream shop to "get away from a kid who was screaming its head off"; I knew she had experienced my sweet guy, my sweet screamy guy.

Little bit later when we were sitting on a bench outside the shop and baby boy was eschewing PJ's red-raspberry-swirl-yogurt-with-rainbow-sprinkles for my triple-chocolate-with-jimmies, preggo lady walks by. Yup. Universe gave me a shot and I took it. Hit the fucker out of the park, too.

It my nice-y, nicest I say "good luck with you baby!" She turns, smiles, sees Link in my lap. Turns away as her mother (mother in law? Aunt? I dunno) goes "make that BABIES!"

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Oh, the richness.

The Sweetest Thing

Link had a great, fun, happy day. At one point (while she was watching "30 Minute Meals"), Penelope was putting on her own cooking show starring Lincoln as "the chicken"; like he was the food. He was laughing so hard tears were streaking into his ears as she salted him, cut him with a VERY SHARP KNIFE and transferred him from pot to pot (couch to couch).

We love him. Desperately. He's so much like us but also that tiny bit different (just the teensy, wobbly leg on his "x" chromosome) that makes him so fascinating and wonderful to us.

How lucky to have this baby.

Cult of Personality

I've been lucky enough to have spoken to two Fragile X "Royal Family" members this week. I fucking love them. I love hearing about their children, their passion for their children and how they believe their Fragile X child has made them better people. They are devoid of self pity and rich with appreciation.

They fight. And I'm going to fight with them.

So this is what Ole Bill W. was talking about

Today I feel that my mother made things much easier for me. I am confident that I will not invite her to holiday celebrations or birthday parties this year. There has been no twinge of guilt today. And no anger.

We may come together again at some point but the chasm is so wide now that it feels (today) easy.

No Vacancy

It is estimated that %3 of the population of the United States is affected by Fragile X Syndrome (it's an estimate because there is the assumption that some people who are affected have yet to be diagnosed). So about 100,000 people. And one of them is a child of mine.

It is estimated that %3 of the population of the United States can be considered geniuses due to their IQ scores (it's an estimate because IQ tests are ridiculous and most intelligent & rational people don't take them). So about 100,000 people. And one of them is a child of mine.

For sure, I think too much. Way too much. And this little statistic has been taking up quite a few rooms in my brain hotel.

Anyway

So. I love facebook. LOVE IT. What I hate about facebook (because there's always something, isn't there?) are those bizarre, non-specific, mysterious, juvenile status updates that go a little something like this:

Some people really don't know how to treat some other people, SHEESH!

Don't you wish some people would stop acting like CHILDREN!?

Hmmmm, I thought FRIEND meant FRIEND!

In the event I stop being such a snob about such things, here's what I'll post:

Really?! Really?! Do you REALLY not know that when you use the word RETARD I want to punch you in the face?

Out of the mouths...

Today, Lincoln responded to a question with a gesture, and a word. A WORD, BITCHES!

I guess I can kiss those political aspirations good-bye

By the time I get to the garage at work, I am so filled up with rage and hopelessness... Getting up at 5 am is not my favorite. And it's really not my favorite after an unpredictable night of sleeping by my sweet babe. I get in the car half asleep with not nearly enough coffee coursing through my veins and the gerbil starts runnin'.

It starts running and I start thinking about the folks I will invariably encounter at work who I now refer to as "assholes with perfect babies". If I were Mel Gibson, I'd scream into these motherfucker's telephones to SUCK IT. Oh, God. This business with Link has shaken my foundations.

My instinct at work is no longer to help selflessly. It's to play defense. I catch myself and move on... mostly. The other day I called a Dr. a prick in front of his patient and I told family members to GET OUT OF THE ROOM!

Right now, I hate going there. My car basically pulls itself into a parking space and I haul my disgruntled, depressed ass out of it and into the building. I put my scrubs on and i spend the day trying not to cry.

It's hard to change your dreams. It's hard to re-write the stories we imagine our children can create. Closing chapters, erasing endings, middles, beginnings. It's hard.

And it is made especially hard when I get driven into my fucking face on a daily basis seemingly typical babies born to heavy smokers, drug addicts, 15 year olds with families who couldn't care less... It's just, sad. I'm sad there almost all the time.

So, anyway, these assholes. All puffed up and ignorant playing a revolting game of "Whoever Makes the Most Drama Wins". Wins what? Certainly not the baby. They're not there for their perfect babies, they're there for the spectacle, to be able to tell the story. And. I . Can't. Take. It.

Pity the nice, loving, devoted-to-the-new-life-about-to-emerge families. This bleeding heart is just about packed up and moved out.

Icky Bits

I got into it again at work today with people who for purely cosmetic reasons, think it's cool to cut baby boy's penises. Today it wasn't even close to funny and I'm sure I've earned myself a new label.

Here's the newly minted worldview of mine at work, though (and hey, world wide web, this is a big, hardcore, only said it to myself piece of thought torture. So feel privileged): I was fighting the whole time, the whole time these compassionate, committed healthcare professionals were flippantly discussing slicing off parts of babies... I was fighting the gut wrenching, nagging bitch of a notion that if we had circumcised Lincoln, he wouldn't be different in yet another way than all the "normal" boys in the world.

Family Matters

So, I hate it when she lies. That's the worst. It's so fucking 1979 and my grandmother being Matriarchal Manipulator all over again. I mean, who the fuck cares ?!?!?! And the lies are dumb, dumb. Lies of exclusion; like she's fucking protecting someone/something but only actually ends up giving her this maddening sense of know-it-all-ness that is so incredibly ridiculous because, hey! Guess what? I ALREADY KNOW.

Yeah, that part of the conversation didn't go very well. Neither did the part where she said she'll try to come over and see the kids now that she knows her grandson has a genetic disorder. REALLY!?! Will you?!?

The part that wasn't so bad? The part where she didn't make it about herself (she did, however, try to make it about my husband... but that's another story). And that's as good as I was hoping it would be. But... it still feels like shit.

Vegas, baby

On our way to Las Vegas (and during the 36 hours the hot husband and I were there) last week, I was struck by many, many things. Here are a few (in no particular order):

1. People who own iPads and use them while eating chicken wings are bad, bad people
2. Nominees for an Emmy Award in the "Best Actor" in a drama category shouldn't be flying in row 22 of Jet Blue
3. Bloody Mary's taste mighty fucking good at 11am
4. It is possible to not eat for 24 hours and drink like a fish instead and NOT puke, pass out OR have a hangover
5. Watching your husband in a smokin hot tuxedo run on-stage to win his third Emmy is still spine-tingling
6. Having sex three times (oooo! it IS a lucky number) in one day, really goddamn good sex, mind you, is still on the table
7. Making small talk is impossible these days. IMPOSSIBLE. I used to be great in a crowd...
8. Unlimited champagne for $5 doesn't suck
9. Being 6000 miles away from Lincoln was suffocating at times
10. Tony Orlando and that friggin song made me cry like a baby

Thank you sir, may I have another. NOT!

Went out shopping today for PJ's birthday party and at one point, I told the husband I was going to return some hats that were gifted to Lincoln that don't fit. He's so sweet, and he says what he says all the time: No, don't go. Stay here. Or: Come home soon, OK? Almost always, I acquiesce. If it's important to him, why not?

Not today. Today I was all tough guy and all: It's OK, I'll be right back. Just going up to Old Navy. I'll be right back. I promise. I kissed his neck and went off on my side mission: Return hats, join husband.

So, I'm in the store and I remember we need shoes for the girls. And socks. And a bathing suit for me (this we *really, really* need). I'm focused. I hunt AND I gather. And I get on line. That's when it starts, internet-people! MY VERY FIRST PANIC ATTACK.

There were two women in front of me on line and a guy behind me... The woman checking out first had a fucking mountain of shit to pay for. I couldn't fathom it. And the woman right in front of me was rifling through receipts in one hand, and clutching a wrinkled shirt in the other.

I started to shake. My pulse went up and it was all I could do not to start bawling on the spot. I also couldn't move from where I was standing. Bitch was glued to the floor. And I'm such a fucking geek; I recognized right away what was happening and I STILL COULDN'T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT. The tears were coming, fast... I turned my head to the dude behind me as I placed all of my stuff on the shelf where the keep all those hip dog toys at Old Navy, know where I'm talking about? So, I put my stuff there and say to the poor guy: I'm sorry! I have to go! Like. He. Cared. And I pretty much ran out and started texting my husband to find out exactly where he was.

When I found him, the tears were at the gate... but he was there and he was sweet. And he was there and I didn't cry. This time.

The Real Deal

Go HERE if you want the best, most up to date and non-alarmist information on Fragile X.

At least I wasn't wearing a scrub cap this time... Or eating

I'm sorry, hot husband, you may want to stop reading so I don't embarrass myself...

But the ridonc-u-lous-ly smokin' neonatologist spent quite a bit of time at the nurse's station today. And it wasn't my birthday. Or even my half birthday. And he showed me a picture of his Weimaraner.

FINE. He showed it to everyone (but I saw it first).

Firstborn

I know how lucky I am that I have Ruby loving me. And she LOVES me. A gift of the brilliant and articulate child is that they can trot out their fancy words and imaginings and complicated thoughts and share them with you.

Today she laid some pretty heavy helpings of deliciousness on me and it felt so good to be alone with her in the car, stroking the back of her neck hearing how happy she is that I'm her mama.

After a bit she says: "you know, Penelope is special. Really special. You go and see her in her kindergarten class and she *seems* like a regular five year old... but she isn't. And Lincoln, that Lincoln! He's going to make the best old man & his grandkids (if he has any) are going to just love him."

A few minutes after that, she goes: "I think I'm going to adopt. I mean, you make childbirth sound pretty incredible, I just don't think it's for me".

She's 10 and I so want to be her when I grow up.

Priorities

Another thing I never really understood, because I never really lived it: The grief diet. Hunger is so...unimportant.

Irony Part I

And to think that all this time I was worried about passing along the male-pattern-baldness gene to my kids.

Day 4

Something I'd rather not hear right now? That my son has not changed, that he is the same baby he was before diagnosis. NO FUCKING KIDDING. Thank you for pointing that out. So he still can't walk, talk, wave, use a spoon? Great.

I don't want to hear about your cousin's friend who has a child with Down Syndrome who works for the MTA. I don't want to know that you knew someone who had a kid who had something *really bad* and they have their own apartment now.

The problem with opening up & sharing; asking for words and emotions and reactions is that you often get hit in the face with a frozen pile of shit that stings and smells and makes you want to vomit all at the same time.

The good thing about it is that you sometimes hear things like this: Lincoln doesn't know he has a diagnosis. Lincoln will always believe he is Lincoln. Yes. YES! YES!! This made me believe that someday the grief will subside.

Ton. Of. Bricks. I get it...

lincolnhasfragilexsyndromelincolnhasfragilexsyndromelincolnhasfragilexsyndromelincolnhasfragilexsyndromelincolnhasfragilexsyndromelincolnhasfragilexsyndromelincolnhasfragilexsyndromelincolnhasfragilexsyndromelincolnhasfragilexsyndrome...

This is my brain on diagnosis. Our family has been told that the first few months are the worst. That this is when we will grieve.

I've never been swayed by people who have written things like "I couldn't type the words" or "It was too much for me to bear".
Oh, the taste is bitter now that I truly, deeply know what that feels like.

There are scenarios in my head that are so crushingly sad. I get caught off guard every second of the day by words, phrases, images and sounds that remind me what my baby boy may never get to be. To do. To have.

The things he may be? May have? I don't give a shit right now. Right now he's my baby.

Certainly won't be her last

Took Ruby to her first rock and roll show the other night. 'Twas the band Flyleaf and, if my 40 year old self may say, they kicked major ass.

The lead singer, Lacey, looks drawn from a Tim Burton sketch book. All straight black hair draped over one eye, the size of an Olsen twin and sporting a icy-red crinoline prom-dress (Yes, I love her. No, I will never tell Penelope.). Heavy, meaty guitars and a driving zombie fueled groove that captivated the house. And it was LOUD. Mother fucker. I didn't remember how loud clubs got. Or how hot. HOT and LOUD. Mama loved it. Ruby? Hmmmm, not so much. Not at first.

Enter guardian angel of 10 year olds at their first show. Dude came out of nowhere while we were sitting out of the main venue area, made conversation about his first show and gave her some earplugs. Then, protector of most excellent premiere concert experiences, chauffeured us up to the VIP section, parted the velvet rope and gave Ruby a stool to stand on. And then he was gone.

Yes, I was crying. Shut up.

Aunt Bunny

If I ever get to have my chance at master control, I'ma make damn sure that we all get to do the jobs we can hit out of the park. I see it every day at work: Cool washcloths? Dad. Soothing voice? Best friend. Push an 8 pound baby out of a vagina? mom.

I need a lot these days. To quote a rather hot husband: It's like we're running a multi national corporation around here. And like most women, asking for help is akin to willingly gargling each morning with the leftovers in the coffee cups that litter the sink from the day before. But I'm getting better! And people help! They do!

My god, do they help. I have been so overwhelmed with how much people not only *say* they want to help, but who follow through with gusto.

The bleeding heart I give a warm and happy home to has been strutting around like Mick Jagger AND Steven Tyler over the loveliness of my friends. And my not so friends; my acquaintances? I guess what I'm saying is that the outpouring has been huge and I am thrilled to be providing an outlet for so much good.


A note on the title of this post: Remember Eddie Murphy's first comedy special? The one where he wore that insane red leather suit? And he talked about his, ahem, zaftig Aunt Bunny who had a mis-hap on the stairs? She was all HELP ME LORD JESUS CHRIST! I'M FALLING DOWN THE STAIRS! THUMP DA BUMP BUMP DUMPTA DA DUMP DUM THUMP DA DUMP BA BUMP BUMP BUMP. OOOOOOOOO! I'M HALF WAY DOWN NOW!

I'm Aunt Bunny. Get it?

Eye of the beholder

Somebody at work yesterday said that uncircumcised penises look like aardvarks. Aardvarks! After I wiped off the yogurt that I had spit out all over my face, I asked her what she thought circumcised penises looked like. Her answer: ACORNS on a SAUSAGE.

Good gawd, I said. Leave the poor aardvarks alone.

Hi, my name is Michele and...

I have an 18 month old baby boy who is unable to walk. Or talk. Today, this is killing me.

You can't always get what you want

Hit the ground running, I did. In the OR and delivered by 0741AM. No time to think just move, move, MOVE! I loved it. I needed it. If they had told me I was going to be in the back all muthahumpin' day, I would have been all: BRING IT ON. 'Twas a day I didn't want to think, 'twas a day I needed to just do.



Handling losses is a part of my job that I embrace fully and totally. I ask for the patients who are losing their babies and willingly assist my co-workers when the job is theirs that shift. I want to be the caregiver because I care. No horn tooting or back slapping. I just feel very, very confident in my ability to help the patients & families who find themselves in the worst set of circumstances possible.

So, no pause, no hesitation: I leave the recovery room and my c-section and I take the patient waiting in triage.
The 19 year old about to lose her baby. She's quiet (understandably), she's pensive (of course), she will not make eye contact (totally expected). And she's alone; oh, sweet suffering souls of the planet do I wish she had stayed that way. Stayed alone. That her awful, sad, scary, damaged family had stayed away. There was no way in to any one of them. Closed, angry and insulated. It was like having 4 separate families in that room. No one spoke, no one made eye contact they all wanted what they wanted and not one of them asked the patient what she wanted. She's 19 years old! She already has 2 children! You are her lover, her mother, the baby's grandmother! Someone be gentle with her!

When the sweet babe finally delivered; delivered through much bleeding, I scooped him (yes, a boy) up in a warm blanket and whisked him to the warmer. The little one's hands were up by his face, his legs and big, beautiful feet were curled up tight. He was perfect. And I told him he was. I also told him that I believed he had made the right choice; that he was a smart, smart boy.

Beam me up

So yesterday, I told my husband (with a hearty amount of sincerity) that I wanted to go live in a yurt. A yurt with a roof garden. HA!

We had just endured the most humorless wireless phone salesperson in all of the whole wide world for about 20 minutes of just the worst mind-melitng script of red-taped-the-COMPANY-knows-best BULLSHITTEDNESS. The smarmy-ness could have greased the engine of my 2001 Chevy Tahoe. My husband left first because the baby was tearing apart ACCESSORIES for the CELLPHONES and gettin' a bit crunky from the aforementioned humorless episode that just kept going on and on and on and on and on..... and on. I finished the transaction alone. This may have not been the best idea.

I didn't say anything mean. I mean I didn't use mean words. You know what I mean? (If you've been paying attention, obviously my previous post has been blown to bits).

I walked out of that store so fucking annoyed and Yurt loving. Yurt yearning. Instead, I got a new data plan.

Mirror, mirror

I do a lot of reflecting now. But maybe not in the way you thinks, ole internets. Here's an example: When I see the extraordinarily buffed out dude at T-ball, I no longer jump to the conclusion that he's a meathead-ed Marlboroite. I wait till he SCREAMS and spews SALIVA through the fence for little Timmy to "RUUUUN! RUN IT OOUUT!" and then I judge.

I'm not sniffin' my drawers reflecting. I'm stealing little moments in the day to make sure I don't say/think an ugly/stupid thing reflecting. This new habit is likely to help me in my new life ON THE DAY SHIFT. The place where I get to spend far too many hours with "Puerto Rican Republican", the "Squirrelly-eyed Conservative", and the " Mayor of I-don't-care-how-slowly-I-walk-I- am-still-not-coming-to-open-a-delivery-table-for-you Town".

Ah, perhaps I *am* still the same old me I see.