It seems like my days off are few and far between, but I've noticed I spend 100% of my time off being Mom Extraordinaire. Bathing Zach and splashing with him in the tub. Down on the floor, helping him reach his milestones. Interacting with Evan and helping him do whatever Evan does.
I can offer this up as evidence: I am currently baking cupcakes. Fricken cupcakes. I don't even recognize myself anymore.
I'm so far from perfect the Perfect exists on an entirely different planet from the one on which I live. And I have been giving this a lot of thought lately. We don't do soccer games and PTA meetings bcause John has no interest and I just don't have the time. I'm a member of the school's HSO, but don't do a lot of participating because of scheduling conflicts. We don't go to church. It just seems that my precious time off shoud be spent here at home, not making myself insane with shuttling Evan everywhere under the sun. And it works out perfectly because Evan has no interest in anything. Until now.
Evan's school is starting up baseball for the elementary kids and Evan wants to sign up. On one hand I want to encourage him to not be a fat couch potato and get out there and go for it. He spends large amounts of time reading books, playing on the computer, and he watches more tv than I can tolerate. The activity will be good for him. But I also have several misgivings about it. Will I have time? Which makes me feel like the worst parent of all time because I should somehow find time. Will he be good at it? Which makes me feel even worse because the point is to have fun, not foster the talents of the next baseball great. And most of all, will Evan do it? Because Evan, when not interested, has no attention span. I can see him in the dugout waiting for his turn at bat. I can picture him picking grass or watching for planes in the outfield. And with this in mind, I wish football was an option for the young kids here. Baseball just requires too much attention.
And then there's the other aspect of it. I have to go and be social with other moms. Gasp! Because in my eyes, I am Mom Extaordinairre. I do the best I can for my offspring, and they are both happy and healthy. This has to have something to do with me, right? But then I go to a function with stay-at-home moms and I realize that while I am patting myself on the back that my kids are clean, fed, and smiling, I really am inferior because the other moms manage all of that while managing 4000 sporting events and recitals a month while simultaneously baking 100 dozen cupcakes without the box and managing to have perfect hair, nails, and makeup. All with a baby on their hip and a toddler tugging at their pants leg, no doubt. And so I start to think to myself, "Self, you really do suck."
I hate feeling like I suck.
Of course I am thinking all of these things when my little free issue of Baby Talk magazine comes in the mail today, complete with an article on how moms lie. Seriously? They lie about perfect marriages and genius children. The article says they mostly do it to avoid criticism and unsolicited advice. I think they do it to keep up appearances. I'd like to find the one who started it all. The perfect Suzie Homemaker with her perfect appearance who lied about how perfect her life is and how she rocks at being a mom, which made her circle of mom friends feel inferior and precipitated their lies, which led to their friends feeling like they had to lie, and so on. I want to find her and wring her neck. Parenthood is tough business, and instead of being a competition, it should be a sisterhood. Your kiddo doesn't sleep through the night yet? Well, even though mine does, I think he is an anomaly, and instead of me gloating to you, let me instead offer words of encouragement and offer up any service I have to offer that can make your sleep-deprived life a little easier. Your kid hasn't reached a certain milestone yet? Well, instead of bragging to you how my 6-month-old is on the verge of curing cancer, let me focus on the adorable and amazing things your baby is doing.
And while I'm on the topic, I think the socially acceptable thing to do when interacting with other busy moms is to wear the appropriate Mom uniform: sweatshirt (with or without the stains), jeans, and gym shoes. If you have time to be flawless, I don't want to know about it, after all. It's not that motherhood means you have to let yourself go. It just means you should not try to out-do the rest of us. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe the rest of the motherhood world goes around in 4-inch Manolos and head-to-toe Prada, and I am infact the abnormal one who doesn't have the time for such crap. I doubt it, though. I think I'm on to something with this competition thing, because I know some pretty extraordinary moms out there who do extraordinary things. They shape young minds as teachers. They keep us safe as police officers. They serve our country in the military. And on their off time, they rock the Mom uniform along with me.
I guess I'll let Evan do the baseball thing. And in my own mind, I'll continue to be Mom Extraordinairre. And I'll try to not feel inferior. And if the competition gets too stiff for me, I can trump the perfect coifs and delicious from-scratch cupcakes and stories of childhood ingenuity with some stories of my own: last night, while they got their beauty sleep, I kept about 10 people breathing who wouldn't otherwise be doing so and was actively involved in the resuscitation of about a half a dozen more. So excuse my stained sweatshirt and faded jeans and lack of baked goods. I was just a little too tired to give a shit. Now let's watch my kid score a winning run.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
We're Going To Hell
Okay, so we are horrible. We healthcare people. Because in order to do what it is we do everyday in an ICU, we have to make crude and completely inappropriate jokes. It's a defense mechanism, peeps.
And if Ol' Aunt Gertrude is dying, we call that "Catchin' the Jesus Bus". Seriously. So imagine my surprise to find this:
Ha! Hahahahaha. The devil is waiting for me in Hell.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Hell Hath No Fury...
...like Andrea pissed.
Seriously. (I think I may say "seriously" entirely too much. Kind of like the word "like" when I was a kid. Oh well. Roll with it because I am really pissed off.
Zach usually takes a bottle of evil formula at night before bed. One little 6-ounce bottle. Now, let me remind you that my boobs have been through sheer hell in the past (almost) nine months. I seriously cannot believe I have kept this shit up this long. (Oh, yeah, forgot to mention that you should expect profanity in this post because, once again, I am pissed.) Like the days where I found random black bruises on me. Or the plugged ducts. And how could I forget the days where I got as little as 2 ounces in 24 fricken HOURS. I didn't do this crap for fun. And it sure as hell has not gone as planned. I didn't want to take herbal supplements to keep the milk coming. I certainly didn't want to buy a hospital-grade pump. And I really, really had no intention of getting nice and intimate with a piece of equipment every two @#$%&* hours a day for at least a year. Okay, now with that being said...
You may or may not remember the early days when I returned from work a mere 5 weeks post c-section and all was sunshine and roses. We have the lactation rooms with the hospital grade pumps and leather recliners, etc. And if you have to pump, you have to pump. No questions asked. Period.
I have not pumped a single time at work in the past 4 days. And I am still doing the 12-hour shifts. In the wee hours of the morning when my boobs seem to be the most productive. So if I can't pump at work, it is a serious issue. And that issue has been my way of life for 4 days now. So while this time last week, Zach was taking one bottle of formula before bedtime, yesterday he only got one 5 ounce bottle of breastmilk all day. Because just one day of missed pumps is enough to do that to me. Now it is all but gone and I am back to killing myself practically in order to get my supply back up. One of my fave ER docs is working tonight and I am on the verge of asking him for another course of Reglan. It is that bad.
It went like this: I have had the ER, despite the fact that I told my boss that the ER, because of its lack of predictability, its distance from the lactation rooms, and the acuity of the patient population, is really difficult for me to cover while still breastfeeding. And she told me to have my coworkers help me and if anything came up, to let her know. I'm sure she doesn't really want me to do that. I would be in her office daily. Long ago, I stopped having someone cover my cell while I go to pump, which is really what I am supposed to do. It's just easier that way because I don't have to deal with the rolled eyes of my coworkers or have to explain why it is that I need this time to them. But the downside of that is that, when I get a call in the middle of a pumping session, I have to call my coworkers to get the patient seen. And the people I have worked with for the past 4 nights are not the type of people to help. For example, I was so busy in the ER last night that I didn't even get to attempt to pump until almost 7 hours into my shift (8 hrs. since the last pumping session). And when I finally got up there, as soon as I took my stuff out of my bag to get ready to do the deed, my phone rings. And it is a nurse who wants a PRN treatment for her patient because he is short of breath. I call the first coworker, who says she got called to a patient in the ICU. I have no reason to not believe her at this point, and so I call someone else. This someone else just happens to be the first girl's BFF. So the second one syas she is "up in the tower" ( a region of the hospital), not specifying which floor she is on, what she is doing, or anything else. I tell her what I need and her response was, "That doesn't sound urgent." And she hangs up. While it is entirely possible that she was correct in her assumption, we have no way of knowing this until someone lays eyes on the patient and does some sort of pulmonary assessment. And so I try to call a third coworker whose phone is saying he is "out of the zone", which means he is in an area of the hospital where his phone has lost signal. So I call the nurse back and let her know what is going on, and could she please give me specifics on the patient's status. She does and tells me he can probably wait until I am finished. So I start to pump. And literally 2 minutes into it, the phone rings again. 2 minutes. So of course the same therapists who were busy with the first call are still busy. And I have no choice. I stop pumping, throw my parts in my cooler without even washing/wiping them, and I go to the patient. Except on the way, I pass the first two girls, giggling and walking down the hallway. On the complete opposite side of the hospital from where I had assigned them at the beginning of their shifts. Together.It was all of 10 minutes after I had spoken with them and they were too busy to help me see one lousy patient. And so I was very pissed. And after that, I was just too busy to even leave the ER and never had another opportunity.
So tonight I report to work. For the first time all week, I am not in charge and so I do not make out the assignments. I told the one girl I can't do the ER tonight. Not after the issues that have gone on for the past 3 days. If I do, I will probably have no more milk for Zach. That's it. All of that work brought to an end like that. And she ignored me and put me there anyway. And in the morning I don't know what I'm going to do. Raise a stink? Go to HR? Post a printed copy of Kentucky breastfeeding laws on her locker? It's all enough to make me want to put in my notice, but my status as the breadwinner means that I need something else lined up first. Incidentally, my hospital was one of the first to recieve the Unicef designation as Baby-Friendly, meaning it makes extraordinary strides to foster breastfeeding. Pretty rich, isn't it?
Grrrrrrr.
Seriously. (I think I may say "seriously" entirely too much. Kind of like the word "like" when I was a kid. Oh well. Roll with it because I am really pissed off.
Zach usually takes a bottle of evil formula at night before bed. One little 6-ounce bottle. Now, let me remind you that my boobs have been through sheer hell in the past (almost) nine months. I seriously cannot believe I have kept this shit up this long. (Oh, yeah, forgot to mention that you should expect profanity in this post because, once again, I am pissed.) Like the days where I found random black bruises on me. Or the plugged ducts. And how could I forget the days where I got as little as 2 ounces in 24 fricken HOURS. I didn't do this crap for fun. And it sure as hell has not gone as planned. I didn't want to take herbal supplements to keep the milk coming. I certainly didn't want to buy a hospital-grade pump. And I really, really had no intention of getting nice and intimate with a piece of equipment every two @#$%&* hours a day for at least a year. Okay, now with that being said...
You may or may not remember the early days when I returned from work a mere 5 weeks post c-section and all was sunshine and roses. We have the lactation rooms with the hospital grade pumps and leather recliners, etc. And if you have to pump, you have to pump. No questions asked. Period.
I have not pumped a single time at work in the past 4 days. And I am still doing the 12-hour shifts. In the wee hours of the morning when my boobs seem to be the most productive. So if I can't pump at work, it is a serious issue. And that issue has been my way of life for 4 days now. So while this time last week, Zach was taking one bottle of formula before bedtime, yesterday he only got one 5 ounce bottle of breastmilk all day. Because just one day of missed pumps is enough to do that to me. Now it is all but gone and I am back to killing myself practically in order to get my supply back up. One of my fave ER docs is working tonight and I am on the verge of asking him for another course of Reglan. It is that bad.
It went like this: I have had the ER, despite the fact that I told my boss that the ER, because of its lack of predictability, its distance from the lactation rooms, and the acuity of the patient population, is really difficult for me to cover while still breastfeeding. And she told me to have my coworkers help me and if anything came up, to let her know. I'm sure she doesn't really want me to do that. I would be in her office daily. Long ago, I stopped having someone cover my cell while I go to pump, which is really what I am supposed to do. It's just easier that way because I don't have to deal with the rolled eyes of my coworkers or have to explain why it is that I need this time to them. But the downside of that is that, when I get a call in the middle of a pumping session, I have to call my coworkers to get the patient seen. And the people I have worked with for the past 4 nights are not the type of people to help. For example, I was so busy in the ER last night that I didn't even get to attempt to pump until almost 7 hours into my shift (8 hrs. since the last pumping session). And when I finally got up there, as soon as I took my stuff out of my bag to get ready to do the deed, my phone rings. And it is a nurse who wants a PRN treatment for her patient because he is short of breath. I call the first coworker, who says she got called to a patient in the ICU. I have no reason to not believe her at this point, and so I call someone else. This someone else just happens to be the first girl's BFF. So the second one syas she is "up in the tower" ( a region of the hospital), not specifying which floor she is on, what she is doing, or anything else. I tell her what I need and her response was, "That doesn't sound urgent." And she hangs up. While it is entirely possible that she was correct in her assumption, we have no way of knowing this until someone lays eyes on the patient and does some sort of pulmonary assessment. And so I try to call a third coworker whose phone is saying he is "out of the zone", which means he is in an area of the hospital where his phone has lost signal. So I call the nurse back and let her know what is going on, and could she please give me specifics on the patient's status. She does and tells me he can probably wait until I am finished. So I start to pump. And literally 2 minutes into it, the phone rings again. 2 minutes. So of course the same therapists who were busy with the first call are still busy. And I have no choice. I stop pumping, throw my parts in my cooler without even washing/wiping them, and I go to the patient. Except on the way, I pass the first two girls, giggling and walking down the hallway. On the complete opposite side of the hospital from where I had assigned them at the beginning of their shifts. Together.It was all of 10 minutes after I had spoken with them and they were too busy to help me see one lousy patient. And so I was very pissed. And after that, I was just too busy to even leave the ER and never had another opportunity.
So tonight I report to work. For the first time all week, I am not in charge and so I do not make out the assignments. I told the one girl I can't do the ER tonight. Not after the issues that have gone on for the past 3 days. If I do, I will probably have no more milk for Zach. That's it. All of that work brought to an end like that. And she ignored me and put me there anyway. And in the morning I don't know what I'm going to do. Raise a stink? Go to HR? Post a printed copy of Kentucky breastfeeding laws on her locker? It's all enough to make me want to put in my notice, but my status as the breadwinner means that I need something else lined up first. Incidentally, my hospital was one of the first to recieve the Unicef designation as Baby-Friendly, meaning it makes extraordinary strides to foster breastfeeding. Pretty rich, isn't it?
Grrrrrrr.
Zach's New Ride, The Awesome Husband Award, and the Pot and Kettle
Zach got a new ride a few days ago. Well, Zach got a lot of new things this week. Evan too, for that matter. It all started with the car seat. We had purchased a big-boy carseat and had a "carseat tech" install it, but then when Evan tried to get in the car next to it, he didn't have room to even get a seat belt latched, and so the carseat immediately was taken out of the car and replaced with Zach's infant carseat once again. We returned it for a refund, but then had to revisit the whole issue once again. We have solved the problem because this time, Evan went with us, and we secured both boys in the car to be sure before we even left the BRU parking lot. And I was so happy because not using Zach's infant carseat meant there was no longer a reason I had to use the companion stroller.
I hated that stroller.
If you have a stroller in your car, you're a mom. And if you're a mom, you're going to need to get groceries. And that damned stroller was so big that I had to put it in the house if I planned on buying more than 2 or 3 bags of groceries. Seriously. With only 2 kids, I shoudn't need a cargo van to go to the supermarket. So Ta-Daaaaaaa! I now had an excuse to buy a new, more compact stroller. But I hate umbrella strollers. Geeez, I really am hard to please. So we found the solution: The Combi Cosmo EX stroller. Light. Folds easily. And not only does it fold flat like the other one, but once flat, it folds again in half, making it ultra compact. And it looks all cool with brushed chrome. The only con was the lack of cupholders to carry the requisite Venti Mocha that it takes to get me to do anything productive, but that was fixed with a $6 attachment. Love it. And if (or when) we have another, The Combi Shuttle infant caseat is compatible with it.
As for the Awesome Husband Award, John takes top honors. I keep thinking I'm going to find out that he shrunk a favorite sweater while doing laundry, or broke a figurine while dusting. Something must be off, and I'm sure it has nothing to do with the Super Bowl today because I will be at work when it's on and have no say in whether he watches it. But as I fell asleep after work his morning, he gave me a foot massage. When I woke up, he brewed me a fresh pot of coffee and brought me lunch here at my desk. And right now, as we speak, he is on the way to pick up a supplement for me. On the other side of Cincinnati, about 45 minutes away. And the supplement is More Milk Plus. And he is most definitely male and not lactating. Whatta guy. I must admit that it makes me chuckle to picture Sniper John of Marine Corps fame going up to someone and asking them where they keep the More Milk Plus.
And the shoes. OMG the shoes. While I was getting my eyes checked a couple of days ago, John went to a shoe store in the mall to buy Evan the new shoes. We decided it was easier to guestimate them fitting and potentially having to return them that it was to deal with Evan at the actual store. And the night before, as I was looking online at the shoes Ev wants, John walked into the room an threw an ever-loving fit. "Andrea, you are NOT going to spend that much on shoes for Evan!!!!" But they were cute. I actually was wondering if they had them in pink in my size. But even my inner Shopaholic had to admit that John had a point, so I planned on doing some sale surfing the next day at the mall. Lo and behold, John did it. That was good, since my eye exam rendered me pretty useless. But I just saw the shoes about 30 minutes ago. Purchased by the man who yelled at me over expensive shoes for Evan. Apparently I can't buy Evan expensive shoes, but John can. Because I pull the box out of the bag and immediately see the contradiction when I spy the little outline of the man in the jumpng position on the top of the box. Yep. John bought him Jordans. You know, because Jordans are so cheap and all. "But they were on sale like you wanted," says John. Yeah. Okay. Their sale price was the same as the full price of the ones I was going to buy. I can see how that makes sense, John. And besides, the last time we bought Ev Jordans, a classmate of his was jealous of them and intentionally stepped on them with mud-covered feet on the first day he wore them. I think I need to devise some sort of plan to get even with the man. Hmmmmmm. I think I need a new purse.....
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Am I Going Blind?
So I did what I hate doing yesterday: I went for my eye exam. I have been with my current employer for several years and have yet to use my vision benefits one single time. I was going to this time last year, and then bedrest took over and it never happened.
I hatehatehate going to the eye doctor.
First of all, have you ever seen that episode of Friends where Rachel goes to get her eyes checked and they do the little air puff thingy? Well if you have seen it and know what I'm talking about, let me just say that that is how I am. Plus up until a couple of years ago, I managed to escape the whole dilate-the-pupils thing. But my father had partial blindness from macular degeneration, and so they no longer allow me to escape that. And those drops seem to affect me more than they say they will. Horrible stuff. Plus, I always seem to get news that is enough to freak me out just a little.
Three Years Ago:
"Hmmmmmm. Interesting." says the Eye Doc Supreme. (Incidentally, my eye doctor is HOTT.)
"What's interesting??????" says Yours Truly.
"Well, your one eye is starting to drift inward just a tiny bit. It's barely noticeable."
"YOU MEAN I'M GOING FRICKEN CROSS-EYED?!?!?!?!"
"Well, yes and no. You can't tell unless you measure, but it may start worsening over the years."
Oh, holy crap. I made the mistake of telling John, who made fun of me for about 6 months after that. He has this odd talent of being able to make just one eye cross. Well, I guess you can't call it "cross" since it is only one eye, but still...So he would look at me and do that, all while asking, "Can you see me now?" And then cracking himself up. Seriously. Of course his ability to laugh at it, while also a form of torture for me, served to show me that he wasn't going to run for the hills from his potentially cross-eyed wife.
So yesterday, I go, and it was horrible. They give me whatever test it is that has all of those 3-d rectangles on it, where they ask you which one appears to stand out more. You know the one. So I do number one. And they all look to the same to me. After asking me about 100 times if I'm sure, the tech has me move on to number 2. And they also all look the same. "They all look the same," I wail at her. Seriously. Am I being Punk'd???? "Oh, Honey," she says, "do you get into a lot of car accidents???"
WTF. No. I don't, thank you very much. I am an excellent driver.
Apparently in my ripe ol' age of 34, I have lost the gift of depth perception. No joke.
I can't judge distance.
And I am slowly going cross-eyed.
Fabulous.
Of course now it all makes sense: how I am constantly on John about getting too close to cars before he brakes. ("OMG Andrea, that's 500 feet away! Quit bitchin'!") How I may have accidentally almost knocked myself out on Zach's entertainer thingy the other day because I honestly didn't see it as being that close to my forehead while I was on the floor playing with him.
So they dilate my pupils and Dr. Hot Cheeks does my exam. No, he cannot correct the depth perception issue with any type of lens. He says I have probably learned to overcompensate for it, so I'll be fine and am not going to kill anyone. My nearsightedness got worse, as did my astigmatism. I take my little prescription for my new glasses to LensCrafters, which is awful, because this is when the dilated-pupils thing really starts to bother me. And LensCrafters is all brightly lit, and has white shelfs and displays, which just glares.
And they want me to pick out glasses that will be a permanent fixture on my face for at least the next year. Why in the hell do they do that?
Once again this year, John picked out my glasses. At least he has decent taste, I think. The pic above are the ones he picked for me: DKNY frames. Kind of a sort of bronze color. A few years ago, he picked the Versace ones I had for the same reason. He knows his Andrea.
So I am wearing the new specs. And for now, everything is nice and crisp until about this time next year when the edges will start to blur and my lenses will take even more cosmetic treatment and space-age material to keep me from looking like Poindexter. Who knows what the news will be next year. Can eyeballs spontaneously combust???
Next week: the dentist. Dun-dun-dunnnnnnnnnh.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
A Story That Needs Telling
In my life, there are a very select few who know this story. There are several reasons for this: nobody really understands except John, people are too judgemental and jump to conclusions, my own child dosn't know for a couple of reasons and I don't want it revealed to him inadvertantly. The biggest reason? Because I have 2 sons and a husband now who all depend on me to be a fully functional wife and mother, and if I had to relive this every day of my life, I think I would literally die. But this time of year is particularly hard on me, and even though it will be a horrendously long post, I have to get this out of me. I have to tell the story. Even with the anonymity of the internet, the thought of telling it is making me have palpitations, my hands shake, and my breathing become ragged with anxiety. Because every time I stop and allow myself to feel this, the pain gets too bad and I have to stop myself or I will lose all ability to function in my day-to-day life. Even with the loss of both of my parents and an older brother, I still had never felt pain so deep that it could literally paralyze me. Until this happened.
His name is Benjamin. This month, he will be 13 years old. He has blue eyes and blond hair. And in my heart and mind, as much as Evan and Zachary are my sons, he is also.
I was so young and dumb. 21 years old and facing an unplanned pregnancy. I was still reeling from my mother's death when I got involved with an older man and got pregnant, and of course the man disappeared. It all sounds so tawdry now, but you would have to understand the place I was in at the time: far from a state of mental and emotional health. But there I was. And I was going to have a baby.
I had the same sort of pregnancy with Ben as I did with Evan and Zach. Preterm labor and crazy contractions, only that was back when I had the ability to dilate and I spent the entire last trimester 4 centimeters dilated. And completely alone. At 35 weeks, they decided I had made it far enough and decided to put me in the hospital with Pitocin to get me the rest of the way, but it didn't work. After 4 days of pain-med -free Pitocin contractions, they did a c-section. My first one. And I gave birth to my first preemie. And he was perfect. Absolutely beautiful. And all of my immaturity dissolved as I held him. I didn't have my mom anymore. Nor did I have my father or my completely dysfunctional siblings. But I had Ben.
I breastfed him, too. And I would sit and rock him and nurse him in my tiny one-bedroom apartment. And I would cry and cry because, after all I had been through, I just knew he was too good to be true and something was going to happen to take him from me. I just knew it.
Somehow having Ben brought back all of the issues with having lost my mom. I think it was just that I needed her then more than ever. But as the 2-year anniversary of her death approached, I had no idea how I was going to make it through. And then it happened. I will never forget that day.
Ben just wasn't acting right. He didn't want to eat. He was mottled and listless. And I was so inexperienced. I called the pediatrician and told them what had me concerned. I was advised to make sure he had enough wet diapers to show he was hydrated and to just relax. And I tried. I watched him almost the entire day, but he just got more and more lethargic. That evening, I called the doctor's line back and spoke to the on-call nurse. I remember my exact words: "You cannot convince me that there is nothing wrong with my baby." And so they reluctantly referred me to the local ER. We had Medicaid and it required a referral for ER services. I began to believe, also, that I was just being a nervous mother. But I still wanted to be sure, so I went. I took a cab there, for Christ's sake! And what happened from there is as permanently tattooed on my brain as much as my own name is.
We waited in the waiting area for what seemed like forever before a triage nurse called us up to see us. I apologized for my over-reacting as I tried to explain why I was concerned enough to bring him to the ER. I didn't have to do this for very long. As soon as she put her stethoscope to Ben's chest, her face went white and she grabbed him out of my hands and rushed to the back of the ER, behind the double doors that remain locked to the public until someone buzzes you in.
And I heard a drone of voices asking me his date of birth, his history, my name. All as the white noise of terror filled my head and I stared at the doors though which my angel had just disappeared. I just kept asking what was wrong, where was my baby, let me go to him.....Finally, they buzzed me in. And they ushered me to his room. But all of these people were in there. And they were stripping him down. And attaching monitor leads all over his chest. And I just kept begging them to just please tell me what was going on. But all they woud say was, "Honey, you need to call someone to come and be with you". And my thoughts! This is how they treated us all of the times mom almost died. Is Ben going to die? Please God, Pleasepleaseplease. I'll do anything. I'll be a better person. Please. No.
I did what they told me to do. I called my friend, Cindy. I told her they said I needed someone there with me, but I didn't know why. She urged me to go back and demand to know what was going on, that Ben was my child and I had that right. And so, disoriented by the maze of curtains in the ER, I tentatively walked back to his room and peeked behind the curtain to ensure I had th right bed before barging in. Oh. Oh My God.
I could just make Ben out on the stretcher between the mass of people in that room. And someone was reciting numbers that meant nothing to me then. And I heard the word "CLEAR!". And I saw my son's tiny six-week-old body jerk with the shock. We think we know the things we would do and say in that situation, but we don't. I know my hand covered my mouth and I let out a low wail that alerted the staff that I had seen too much. Someone's strong hands grasped my shoulders from behind and pulled me out of the room while one of the doctors kicked the door closed with his foot. By this point, I was begging. Please. Let me have my baby. What's wrong with my baby as a random nurse held me while I sobbed. Some man waiting in the hall to have his son's ankle x-rayed pulled a chair over to me, urging me to sit down and I cursed at him. And the nurse whispered over her head to a lady at the nurses station to please call a chaplain for me. Which only made it worse. You call the chaplain when someone has died. And they called Cindy back for me. I heard them say something about a chopper coming. And then I was sitting in this "quiet room" in the ER with a nun from the Chaplain's office. She held my hand and we didn't speak. And then Cindy was there and holding my hand while I cried and rocked back and forth in my grief. A nurse entered the room and said, "Mom, you can see him now." I thought I was going to see him in order to say goodbye.
They had moved him to a larger room to accomodate the equipment. Had moved the stretcher out for his tiny isolette. He had 3 IV's. He was hooked to a monitor for his heart, an oximeter. The wires seemed to cover his tiny newborn body. But he was alive. I couldn't hold him. There was only one thing I could do. From my pregnancy, "You are My Sunshine" was our song. I would sing it to him in the womb. There used to be a Johnson and Johnson ad that had a mom singing it while she washed her baby, and everytime it would come on, newborn or not, Ben would turn and look at the tv. It was our song. And so all I knew to do was lean down and press my cheek to his and sing our song to him. And there and then, at six weeks of age, he looked at me and gave me his first real social smile. Through the wires and tubes.
Right afer that, he was air-lifted to Children's Hospital. Even though it was 10 minutes away, he was that fragile that they couldn't risk it. And it was there that I learned about the defect in his heart that had caused his heartrate to climb higher and higher. When we were at the first ER, it had reached over 360 beats per minute and his body couldn't keep up. He had gone into congestive heart failure and his body had been in the process of shutting down. And he had to be resuscitated. They estimated that if I had waited just 10 more minutes, he would have died. And although there were different causes involved, he went into congestive heart failure on the 2-year anniversary of mom's death from congestive heart failure. She had just had hers as a result of lung disease.
Ben ended up with a team of specialists. A pediatric cardiologist. And then another more specialized cardiologist who dealt exclusively with electrophysiology of the heart. I was taught to check his pulse. He was on a heart monitor all of the time. If his heartrate got over 120, I was told he needed to get to a hospital. But babies have fast heartrates and I was just a young girl. If he cried, he got up there. Later when he was diagnosed with asthma, and I would give him his medications, it would make his heartrate increase. It was a mess. And as a result of my inexperience and lack of knowledge, this meant I had him in th ER a lot. I was so terrified after the first experience with it. Well, one time, Ben saw a doctor who was part of their Child Abuse Task Force. And there was this new thing flooding the media called Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. And though he never asked why, he saw the number of times Ben had been to the ER and he made his false accusation. I was 6 months shy of my 23rd birthday and Ben was 17 months old the day my life ended. The state, acting on this over-zealous doctor's word, came in and took my baby. They wouldn't tell me where he was. I just know they kept putting him in foster homes. In desperation, I did the only thing I could think to do: I called my oldest sister, a cardiac nurse, thinking she would help me. She would understand and help me get my son back. Instead, she used a grudge she harbored against me for being mom's favorite and she got custody of Ben. She completely impeded the process. Social workers gave me all kinds of hoops to jump through without telling me how to jump through them. It took them over a year to find a forensic psychiatrist to evaluate me. Thinking this was the final task in getting my son back, I looked to my appointment with him to be my lifeline. And he did exactly what I wanted after a full day's worth of tests and psych evaluations. During the final step in the process, an interview with me, he finished up and told me I could leave. I asked what they were going to do, and he asked what I meant. "Well, they said I have Munchausen Syndrome. You're supposed to tell them if I do or not", I said. He asked who had mentioned those words to me, then started to describe why it was they would think that. That I had Ben to the ER 32 times in 17 months, which was very Munchausen-like. "But wouldn't that also be the actions of a mother who is scared to death for her baby?", I asked. He gave me a gentle smile and said yes, and that was why he was going to tell them I did not have Munchausen by Proxy. I thought it was over. Ben would come home. I would get my life and my breath back.
No. The state continued to drag their heels. And everytime I called my sister to arrange visits with Ben, she would scream at me about Mom. About stuff from my childhood. I still did all could to bring Ben home. I met John in the midst of all of it. He even went through parenting classes to show the state he was supportive of the goal of Ben coming home. We waited for the report from the psych eval. The psychiatrist had a heart attack in the midst of that. It took 6 more months to get his report. The report that told them that I did not have Munchausen Syndrome, but instead had emotional hang-ups about my mother's death coupled with the chronic illness and resuscitation of my newborn son that cause me to panic. He advised counseling for me, and I agreed. Always with the goal of bringing Ben home.
John and I were married and I was in the first trimester with my pregnancy with Evan when a social worker sat in my living room and told us that the state would be recommending that Ben remain with my sister because of the length of time that had passed. The length of time it took them to complete the investigation. I kept up visits with Ben, though. Anytime with him was better than none. And then the complications with Evan's pregnancy started and I was hospitalized indefinitely for my crazy contractions. I couldn't regularly make the one-hour drive to see him because I was pretty much held hostage in a hospital bed on a mag sulfate drip. My sister used this against me and stopped complying with the order for my visits. I was in the deepest, darkest, blackest of depressions without my baby boy. John and Evan are the only reasons I resisted suicide. Evan needed me. And though it felt as if my heart were being ripped from my chest, I knew that Ben needed a stable home. He learned to call my sister "Mommy". He had years with them. And even though the state was horrifically wrong, I could not allow myself to disrupt his life. It wasn't his fault, and I loved him too much to hurt him. I moved away because the temptation to take him and run with him was just too great.
Years later, I saw Ben. We moved back up north when I took my job at the hospital in Indiana. He was 9. Evan's age now. And he had since been diagnosed as autistic, which killed me. He came to my house, thinking I was his aunt Andi. And it killed me a little more inside everyday. And gave me the greatest joy. I got to see Evan play with his older brother, even though it was under the ruse of cousins playing. But Evan is a smart, smart kid. And one day, he referred to Ben as his brother. And we had to end it because Ben's emotional issues meant that he couldn't handle knowing I was really his mother. Even though I think he knew. He would always ask me to tell him about his birth. And each time I would see him, it would break my heart and I would be reduced to the suicidal trainwreck instead of the wife, mother, an healthcare professional I had since become. I couldn't allow that. Not for Ben. Not for John. And not for Evan. And I had to move on.
Or so I said.
I will never move on. Over the years, I have gotten very, very good at the act. Now, if you see me, you would never know I'm just a shell. You cannot even see the jagged scars running through every fiber of my being. And I cannot escape it. His birthday is the 18th. And it is so hard. But it isn't just that. He comes back to me about a million times a day. Zach looks a lot like him. The same rosy, chubby cheeks. The same blue eyes. And Ben is here. When I'm in the car, on the way to work. When I'm changing Zach's diaper. When I'm helping Evan with homework. And I bide my time until he's 18. When I can tell him the truth.
Benjamin, you are my son. My firstborn. Even in your absence, you have never been far from me. You are always here. Do you remember my voice? I need you to remember. Can you hear me singing to you as I nursed you to sleep? Do you remember Love You Always? The story I used to read to you when you were a baby, as you drifted off to sleep? By Robert Munsch. "I'll love you forever, I'll love you for always. As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be." It's so true,Ben. You really are my Sunshine. Still. Always.
His name is Benjamin. This month, he will be 13 years old. He has blue eyes and blond hair. And in my heart and mind, as much as Evan and Zachary are my sons, he is also.
I was so young and dumb. 21 years old and facing an unplanned pregnancy. I was still reeling from my mother's death when I got involved with an older man and got pregnant, and of course the man disappeared. It all sounds so tawdry now, but you would have to understand the place I was in at the time: far from a state of mental and emotional health. But there I was. And I was going to have a baby.
I had the same sort of pregnancy with Ben as I did with Evan and Zach. Preterm labor and crazy contractions, only that was back when I had the ability to dilate and I spent the entire last trimester 4 centimeters dilated. And completely alone. At 35 weeks, they decided I had made it far enough and decided to put me in the hospital with Pitocin to get me the rest of the way, but it didn't work. After 4 days of pain-med -free Pitocin contractions, they did a c-section. My first one. And I gave birth to my first preemie. And he was perfect. Absolutely beautiful. And all of my immaturity dissolved as I held him. I didn't have my mom anymore. Nor did I have my father or my completely dysfunctional siblings. But I had Ben.
I breastfed him, too. And I would sit and rock him and nurse him in my tiny one-bedroom apartment. And I would cry and cry because, after all I had been through, I just knew he was too good to be true and something was going to happen to take him from me. I just knew it.
Somehow having Ben brought back all of the issues with having lost my mom. I think it was just that I needed her then more than ever. But as the 2-year anniversary of her death approached, I had no idea how I was going to make it through. And then it happened. I will never forget that day.
Ben just wasn't acting right. He didn't want to eat. He was mottled and listless. And I was so inexperienced. I called the pediatrician and told them what had me concerned. I was advised to make sure he had enough wet diapers to show he was hydrated and to just relax. And I tried. I watched him almost the entire day, but he just got more and more lethargic. That evening, I called the doctor's line back and spoke to the on-call nurse. I remember my exact words: "You cannot convince me that there is nothing wrong with my baby." And so they reluctantly referred me to the local ER. We had Medicaid and it required a referral for ER services. I began to believe, also, that I was just being a nervous mother. But I still wanted to be sure, so I went. I took a cab there, for Christ's sake! And what happened from there is as permanently tattooed on my brain as much as my own name is.
We waited in the waiting area for what seemed like forever before a triage nurse called us up to see us. I apologized for my over-reacting as I tried to explain why I was concerned enough to bring him to the ER. I didn't have to do this for very long. As soon as she put her stethoscope to Ben's chest, her face went white and she grabbed him out of my hands and rushed to the back of the ER, behind the double doors that remain locked to the public until someone buzzes you in.
And I heard a drone of voices asking me his date of birth, his history, my name. All as the white noise of terror filled my head and I stared at the doors though which my angel had just disappeared. I just kept asking what was wrong, where was my baby, let me go to him.....Finally, they buzzed me in. And they ushered me to his room. But all of these people were in there. And they were stripping him down. And attaching monitor leads all over his chest. And I just kept begging them to just please tell me what was going on. But all they woud say was, "Honey, you need to call someone to come and be with you". And my thoughts! This is how they treated us all of the times mom almost died. Is Ben going to die? Please God, Pleasepleaseplease. I'll do anything. I'll be a better person. Please. No.
I did what they told me to do. I called my friend, Cindy. I told her they said I needed someone there with me, but I didn't know why. She urged me to go back and demand to know what was going on, that Ben was my child and I had that right. And so, disoriented by the maze of curtains in the ER, I tentatively walked back to his room and peeked behind the curtain to ensure I had th right bed before barging in. Oh. Oh My God.
I could just make Ben out on the stretcher between the mass of people in that room. And someone was reciting numbers that meant nothing to me then. And I heard the word "CLEAR!". And I saw my son's tiny six-week-old body jerk with the shock. We think we know the things we would do and say in that situation, but we don't. I know my hand covered my mouth and I let out a low wail that alerted the staff that I had seen too much. Someone's strong hands grasped my shoulders from behind and pulled me out of the room while one of the doctors kicked the door closed with his foot. By this point, I was begging. Please. Let me have my baby. What's wrong with my baby as a random nurse held me while I sobbed. Some man waiting in the hall to have his son's ankle x-rayed pulled a chair over to me, urging me to sit down and I cursed at him. And the nurse whispered over her head to a lady at the nurses station to please call a chaplain for me. Which only made it worse. You call the chaplain when someone has died. And they called Cindy back for me. I heard them say something about a chopper coming. And then I was sitting in this "quiet room" in the ER with a nun from the Chaplain's office. She held my hand and we didn't speak. And then Cindy was there and holding my hand while I cried and rocked back and forth in my grief. A nurse entered the room and said, "Mom, you can see him now." I thought I was going to see him in order to say goodbye.
They had moved him to a larger room to accomodate the equipment. Had moved the stretcher out for his tiny isolette. He had 3 IV's. He was hooked to a monitor for his heart, an oximeter. The wires seemed to cover his tiny newborn body. But he was alive. I couldn't hold him. There was only one thing I could do. From my pregnancy, "You are My Sunshine" was our song. I would sing it to him in the womb. There used to be a Johnson and Johnson ad that had a mom singing it while she washed her baby, and everytime it would come on, newborn or not, Ben would turn and look at the tv. It was our song. And so all I knew to do was lean down and press my cheek to his and sing our song to him. And there and then, at six weeks of age, he looked at me and gave me his first real social smile. Through the wires and tubes.
Right afer that, he was air-lifted to Children's Hospital. Even though it was 10 minutes away, he was that fragile that they couldn't risk it. And it was there that I learned about the defect in his heart that had caused his heartrate to climb higher and higher. When we were at the first ER, it had reached over 360 beats per minute and his body couldn't keep up. He had gone into congestive heart failure and his body had been in the process of shutting down. And he had to be resuscitated. They estimated that if I had waited just 10 more minutes, he would have died. And although there were different causes involved, he went into congestive heart failure on the 2-year anniversary of mom's death from congestive heart failure. She had just had hers as a result of lung disease.
Ben ended up with a team of specialists. A pediatric cardiologist. And then another more specialized cardiologist who dealt exclusively with electrophysiology of the heart. I was taught to check his pulse. He was on a heart monitor all of the time. If his heartrate got over 120, I was told he needed to get to a hospital. But babies have fast heartrates and I was just a young girl. If he cried, he got up there. Later when he was diagnosed with asthma, and I would give him his medications, it would make his heartrate increase. It was a mess. And as a result of my inexperience and lack of knowledge, this meant I had him in th ER a lot. I was so terrified after the first experience with it. Well, one time, Ben saw a doctor who was part of their Child Abuse Task Force. And there was this new thing flooding the media called Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. And though he never asked why, he saw the number of times Ben had been to the ER and he made his false accusation. I was 6 months shy of my 23rd birthday and Ben was 17 months old the day my life ended. The state, acting on this over-zealous doctor's word, came in and took my baby. They wouldn't tell me where he was. I just know they kept putting him in foster homes. In desperation, I did the only thing I could think to do: I called my oldest sister, a cardiac nurse, thinking she would help me. She would understand and help me get my son back. Instead, she used a grudge she harbored against me for being mom's favorite and she got custody of Ben. She completely impeded the process. Social workers gave me all kinds of hoops to jump through without telling me how to jump through them. It took them over a year to find a forensic psychiatrist to evaluate me. Thinking this was the final task in getting my son back, I looked to my appointment with him to be my lifeline. And he did exactly what I wanted after a full day's worth of tests and psych evaluations. During the final step in the process, an interview with me, he finished up and told me I could leave. I asked what they were going to do, and he asked what I meant. "Well, they said I have Munchausen Syndrome. You're supposed to tell them if I do or not", I said. He asked who had mentioned those words to me, then started to describe why it was they would think that. That I had Ben to the ER 32 times in 17 months, which was very Munchausen-like. "But wouldn't that also be the actions of a mother who is scared to death for her baby?", I asked. He gave me a gentle smile and said yes, and that was why he was going to tell them I did not have Munchausen by Proxy. I thought it was over. Ben would come home. I would get my life and my breath back.
No. The state continued to drag their heels. And everytime I called my sister to arrange visits with Ben, she would scream at me about Mom. About stuff from my childhood. I still did all could to bring Ben home. I met John in the midst of all of it. He even went through parenting classes to show the state he was supportive of the goal of Ben coming home. We waited for the report from the psych eval. The psychiatrist had a heart attack in the midst of that. It took 6 more months to get his report. The report that told them that I did not have Munchausen Syndrome, but instead had emotional hang-ups about my mother's death coupled with the chronic illness and resuscitation of my newborn son that cause me to panic. He advised counseling for me, and I agreed. Always with the goal of bringing Ben home.
John and I were married and I was in the first trimester with my pregnancy with Evan when a social worker sat in my living room and told us that the state would be recommending that Ben remain with my sister because of the length of time that had passed. The length of time it took them to complete the investigation. I kept up visits with Ben, though. Anytime with him was better than none. And then the complications with Evan's pregnancy started and I was hospitalized indefinitely for my crazy contractions. I couldn't regularly make the one-hour drive to see him because I was pretty much held hostage in a hospital bed on a mag sulfate drip. My sister used this against me and stopped complying with the order for my visits. I was in the deepest, darkest, blackest of depressions without my baby boy. John and Evan are the only reasons I resisted suicide. Evan needed me. And though it felt as if my heart were being ripped from my chest, I knew that Ben needed a stable home. He learned to call my sister "Mommy". He had years with them. And even though the state was horrifically wrong, I could not allow myself to disrupt his life. It wasn't his fault, and I loved him too much to hurt him. I moved away because the temptation to take him and run with him was just too great.
Years later, I saw Ben. We moved back up north when I took my job at the hospital in Indiana. He was 9. Evan's age now. And he had since been diagnosed as autistic, which killed me. He came to my house, thinking I was his aunt Andi. And it killed me a little more inside everyday. And gave me the greatest joy. I got to see Evan play with his older brother, even though it was under the ruse of cousins playing. But Evan is a smart, smart kid. And one day, he referred to Ben as his brother. And we had to end it because Ben's emotional issues meant that he couldn't handle knowing I was really his mother. Even though I think he knew. He would always ask me to tell him about his birth. And each time I would see him, it would break my heart and I would be reduced to the suicidal trainwreck instead of the wife, mother, an healthcare professional I had since become. I couldn't allow that. Not for Ben. Not for John. And not for Evan. And I had to move on.
Or so I said.
I will never move on. Over the years, I have gotten very, very good at the act. Now, if you see me, you would never know I'm just a shell. You cannot even see the jagged scars running through every fiber of my being. And I cannot escape it. His birthday is the 18th. And it is so hard. But it isn't just that. He comes back to me about a million times a day. Zach looks a lot like him. The same rosy, chubby cheeks. The same blue eyes. And Ben is here. When I'm in the car, on the way to work. When I'm changing Zach's diaper. When I'm helping Evan with homework. And I bide my time until he's 18. When I can tell him the truth.
Benjamin, you are my son. My firstborn. Even in your absence, you have never been far from me. You are always here. Do you remember my voice? I need you to remember. Can you hear me singing to you as I nursed you to sleep? Do you remember Love You Always? The story I used to read to you when you were a baby, as you drifted off to sleep? By Robert Munsch. "I'll love you forever, I'll love you for always. As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be." It's so true,Ben. You really are my Sunshine. Still. Always.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Girls Can Be Easier...
Shoes. Holy shiznit, the kid needs shoes. Again. This is enough to send me into a complete and utter meltdown, running to my ER like some of the drug-seeking patients we get, begging for Xanex. (Incidentally, you know they are "seeking" when they call them "Zannies". Just sayin'.)
Lemme tell you about the last time I physically took Ev to a shoe store. He was in what I called a phase where he liked Hannah Montana. No joke. Even though Miley's voice made me want to scratch at my ears until they bled, I still know all of the words to "The Best of Both Worlds". And I was right: it was just a phase. But he wanted these pink, sparkly Hannah shoes. I guess this is what happens when you raise your kid in an environment where there really are no gender roles. He will not be bashful at all when it comes to telling you what he wants and likes, even if that is a glittery pink tutu. Or sparkly pink shoes. And I have even gone so far as to buy the kid pink slippers because they were branded with Miley's face.
But you wear slippers in the house.
Where you live with people who are legally obligated to love you and not make fun of you, lest they spend the rest of their lives paying for your therapy.
Where there are no mean children who will make fun of you for wearing sparkly pink shoes when you have a penis on your person.
So while the quasi-feminist side of me wanted to give in and buy the damned shoes, because, hey, there really is no such thing as "boy" or "girl" anything in my eyes, I do have to present this child to the rest of the world. And so I said no. And then tried to make up for it by telling Evan he could pick out any shoe from the boys' section. But this is Evan. And Evan gets what Evan wants. And so he drew even more attention to us by throwing a fit and wailing, forcing his father to literally drag him out of the store. And I got all upset that he turned down a section full of designer shoes and decided that was just fine, that the kid would get El Cheapos. Just to prove my point. And so I took him to Payless.
Holy Crap. Bad, bad idea, Andrea! Because there is not a piece of children's apparel I hate any more than a pleather pair of shoes with a big, fugly, plastic character applique on the side. Gah! And there they all were: Batman, Pokemon, Bakugan, Lightening McQueen...Horrible. (Incidentally,if you choose to buy these for your kids, I mean to say that they are fabulous, really. Just not my taste!) He couldn't get the white leather gym shoes. He wanted a big plastic face. Noooooooo! And so we left there and went to the mall. Where there are all sorts of sporting goods stores. No Hannah Montana. No plastic heads. Just gym shoes.
And Evan, because he is my kid, picks out the most expensive pair he can find. And I was not about to pay $200 for shoes he would have looking like garbage within one month. And so when I tell him "$100 or less", which I think is pretty fricken generous for shoes for a then-8-year-old, he has another meltdown, and we go to the car with the intention of leaving.
And then I remember why we came in the first place. That his shoes have a hole in the sole and he needs new ones or a social worker will take him away.
And so I bribe him with $10 if he will just get sensible shoes. Please. For me.
And so we head into Stride Rite, where he discovers these shoes that have "super balls" in the soles. Okay. By this point, they could have steel spikes in the soles and I would buy them. We had been at it for 4 hours. So I bought the shoes. I didn't even look at the price. I didn't care. I knew they were good quality because they were Stride Rite, but they looked like cheapies. He insisted, though.
They were $90. And the first day he wore them to school, he came home crying because one of his classmates incessantly teased him that his shoes looked like they came from the dollar store. And he begged me to go back to the first shoe store and please just buy a regular pair of Nikes like I had originally wanted. And because if I could stand him getting picked on, I would have just bought the friggin' sparkly pink ones in the first place. There should have been some major lesson in it for him. I know, I know. I ran in and saved his day once again. I reinforced that he can throw tantrums and I will still eventually give in.
But childhood can be rough. Especially for the highly intelligent kid with the mind of a wise adult, trapped in the body and classroom of a 9-year-old. The love I have for the kid means that I will make anything that I can just a bit easier for him. We'll learn the lessons later.
And so here we are. 5 months from that experience. And he has worn through another pair of shoes. I could put my foot down and insist he wear the super ball shoes, but they are a tad too small. He actually asked for a pair of Nikes. Air Max. In his current size, they're $65. Score! I can do that. But wait! They only go up to size 3???? Where are the 3 1/2's???? Oh! 3's are "preschool sized" and 3 1/2's are "grade school sized". And so Nike has doubled the price. For about 1 inch more of shoe. Fabulous.
And so this is a tale for all of you crazies out there who insist girls are easier to raise than boys. (Well, this and the time I paid a fortune for a "real" NFL jersey for him, only to have the little girl behind him in class peel off all of the letters---Josie, your mom still owes me 80 bucks!)
And why I am seriously needing anxiety meds to buy shoes that are about 6 inches long. And why I am jealous that in third-world countries, they don't have to wear shoes...
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