Nobody puts Abbey in a corner

Bittersweet

2011-07-19T14:17:00.002-05:00

Tomorrow is surely to be the happiest day of my life.
So why are the tears pouring down?
Is it fear? Hell yes.
Is it anxiety? Of course.
But the reason I can't even type this out through a blurry haze of tears is that I'm afraid the "everything else" will make tomorrow too hard, unbearable even.
Too hard for me.
Too hard for mom.
And too hard for Sarah.
As excited as I am for Miles' arrival -- it feels like it's been 10 years not 10 months -- all I can think about is the giant elephant in the room. The person that isn't there. The person we are all going to be thinking about.
Dad.
It's not fair.
And as that phrase rolls off my brain's tongue, I can hear my dad say, "Life's not fair. A fair is that thing that comes around once a year."
And I'm smiling.
I think about him all the time; thankfully most of the memories (like that one) make me smile. What makes me sad is to think about all Miles is going to miss out on, all I'm going to miss out on, without dad here.
I think about how dad was cheated. He would have been the best grandpa ever. That big, burly guy was AMAZING with kids. Ask my cousins. I think he was the favorite uncle hands down!
He was stoked to hear the news about Miles, well back then the baby was "Poppy." I'm sure dad knows now, but we hadn't learned if the baby was a boy or girl until after he passed away. And Miles has his grandpa to thank (or curse) for his middle name.
I'm sure dad's going to be looking down (hopefully after I'm out of the operating room) and keeping close tabs on Miles, the little guy's English skills, his taste in music and of course that ever elusive curve ball.
I just hope tomorrow -- which I know will be full of tears -- will bring happy thoughts and memories, maybe even a story or two. I don't want it to be too hard. I want us to celebrate Miles and dad's memory together in a happy way.
Anyway, here's a prayer for a healthy baby, a healthy delivery and a blessed family. And here's a shout-out to my dad, who surely is cursing this blog full of run-ons and incomplete sentences. I love you so much, think about you even more often and know you'll be with us tomorrow. This time tomorrow I'll be a momma and you'll be a grandpa!

It's baby time

2011-07-12T08:36:00.002-05:00

So my friend David is right... I will never be a regular blogger. Every few months (if even less frequently) I'll post a blog SWEARING I'll be better. I know when I'm typing it is not true, and I'm sure my two faithful readers know it isn't true when they read it (I don't know if I have any faithful readers, I'm just assuming I might have two).
Anyway... Here's another empty promise about regular blogging. I may try to do what said friend David does (I'm such a copycat) and do more Facebook status update-esque blogs with several a day posts. We'll see. If I could figure out how to do this from my phone I think I'd be much more successful.
So enough of all that, on to the actual, too long, blog post...
It's almost baby time (said in a sing-songy head boppy tone)! This time next week I will be less than 24 hours away from being a momma. For those of you who didn't follow that logic (it would have been better to wait and do this tomorrow), the C-section is scheduled for 8 a.m. next Wednesday. So unless Miles checks his mail and notices the eviction notice I sent out Sunday night, July 20 will be his birthday.
And I'm ready. Really, I think I'm ready. And I just don't mean ready to no longer be pregnant -- which I really, really, really am. But I mean I'm ready for Miles to be here. Yes, I'm so flippin' scared it isn't even funny. I'm anxious, I'm nervous, I'm trepidations, I'm all those synonyms. But I'm also ready.
The nursery has been all owled out for weeks now. The clothes have been hanging in the closet with care (washed in baby detergent and all) for months now and the cloth diapers are all put together and neatly folded in their appropriate cubby hole. We even have the car seat installed and have, for the most part, transformed our hoarder wanna be house into a home that will accommodate and welcome Miles and the onslaught of visitors I can't wait to introduce him to!
Yes, I still worry so much about how in the heck we are going to be able to afford this child (he's already wracking up the medical bills with every three-week visits and high tech ultrasounds at a high risk pregnancy center in Indianapolis, gestational diabetes scares, lots of extra blood work, weekly non-stress tests and now a C-section.) I worry that Michael and I will "screw him up." I worry that I won't be able to soothe him and all he'll do is cry. I worry he won't like me or think I'm cool enough. I worry he will battle with some of the same weight issues I did. I worry about him being healthy. Do you get the trend... I worry. I am a McLaughlin after all.
Anyway, even with all those worries, I'm ready. This pregnancy has been far from idyllic. My mom regales me with tales about being pregnant (even with twins) saying it was one of the best times of her life. She felt so special, so wonderful. I guess I've had so much "life" happen around this pregnancy that I haven't gotten that same chance to just focus on the "joys" of pregnancy. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't trade the outcome for anything, I just also can't say the physical act of being pregnant has been blissful. It's been full of swollen, swollen feet; cramps and pains; scary doctors visits and phone calls; poking and prodding and no sleep.
All in all, Michael and I are stoked about the joys (and worries) of parenthood.
Come on baby Miles, can't wait to meet you!

Grief

2011-02-09T20:23:00.002-06:00

Grief -- it should be a four letter word. I can count, I know it isn't. But right now I feel like it is.
My hubby says I'm ignoring it. But I feel like I'm eight-feet deep in it -- and I'm only 5'4" so that means I'm in way over my head.
What's it even supposed to feel like?
Crying? Check.
Anger? Check.
Fear? Check.
Disbelief? Check.
Pain? Check.
Denial? Check.
Acceptance? I'm not there yet.
How can you accept something like this at 30. It isn't supposed to happen this way. Months before the arrival of Poppy even.
But in the same breath (and the same set of tears), it was an amazing 30 years. So many people don't get a fraction of what I got. We all have said over and over again -- both to make things easier for us and easier for those around us -- that we'd rather have had the amazing quality of years we had with him than had twice as long and have had the time be mediocre.
Michael keeps saying -- and I know he is right -- soon all I will think about and remember are the great memories, the amazing 30 years I had. But right now my mind too often goes to those last few days -- me feeding my non-responsive father, him begging me to let him get out of bed, the image of his last breath. I keep thinking about what I will miss. What my child (and future children) will miss. What Michael will never get to experience. The pain that mom must be going through. All of the things the rest of the world will never get to experience because dad is no longer in this world.
On Jan. 28 we said goodbye to the greatest dad ever. I laid in bed with him, my hand gripping his right hand so tightly, refusing to let go. My mom stroked his spikey hair snuggled next to him in the hospital bed in what used to be dad's sanctuary -- his music room. The ritual of mom rubbing that soft hair was ingrained in her mind as she'd done it so much during his sleepless, pain-filled nights he'd been burdened with since his diagnosis. Sarah knelt next to him her hands holding his left hand, her head resting on his shoulder.
We sobbed, telling him how much we loved him, how we would be OK, we promised to take care of each other. He took his last breath, finally his face at peace after days of agitation and obvious pain.
He was diagnosed with cancer two weeks before my wedding, told he'd be released from the hospital with hospice the day before my 30th birthday and died exactly 25 weeks before my due date.
When dad was diagnosed in March 2010, they told us he would have a year if he did nothing to fight the disease taking over his once strong, hulking body. Dad did the opposite -- he did everything he could. That strong, too big, body was whittled down to close to half it's original size.
He suffered through intensive seeded radiation. He did rounds of excruciating and nauseating chemo. He soldiered through painful bowel issues caused by all the medicine he was ingesting.
If dad had it his way, he would have just chilled until the end. He would have never wanted to go through what he did that last week in January.
He did that for us.
He did everything for us.
He loved mom, Sarah and me more than anything else.
And I'm one of the luckiest people in the world because it didn't take dad getting sick for me to realize that. I hope to God that he knew that we loved him just as much well before his diagnosis, and he never doubted it.
That's the joy of being raised by social workers. We are a family where nothing goes unsaid -- for good and bad, but mostly for good.
I want to share two things -- what Sarah and I wrote for the funeral and also dad's obituary. I wrote the obituary the day after he passed. I couldn't imagine trusting dad's legacy with any one else, dad deserved so much more than even what I could have written.
And when I'm a little stronger, I want to talk about those last few days. I want to share the good and the bad -- I need to get it out, process it all. But also, I want to not have it so ingrained in my brain, but I think it is important to have it somewhere. Why not here?

Obituary:

Jeff Brown referred to his wife Bev Brown as his angel since he was first diagnosed with cancer in March 2010. On Jan. 28, 2011, Jeff became Bev’s angel when he died at home surrounded by his loving family.

Jeff had many passions in his 56 years of life. He crusaded for issues such as domestic violence, child abuse, HIV/AIDS awareness and ending hunger. But his biggest passion was always his family.

Bev describes their more than 34 years of marriage as a roller coaster ride – fun and exciting and at times a little unpredictable. Their twin daughters – Abbey Brown Doyle and Sarah Brown Spurgeon – held a special spot in Jeff’s heart.

The sisters each have their own special memories and moments of their father. His daughters' adventures both near and far were his favorite stories to tell for this vivid storyteller to share.

Jeff never worried about his declining health or the pain it might bring; his only concern was about missing out on all the future memories he had yet to make with the ever-growing Brown clan.

With the November announcement of his first grandchild, Jeff was overjoyed. He’d started stretching his grandpa muscles a few years back with "grandkitty" Comilla Spurgeon and "grandpuppy" Van Gogh Doyle.

Jeff had already made plans to teach Baby Doyle how to write haiku and throw a curve ball. Although he won’t be here for the arrival of his grandchild, Jeff will live on through the countless stories family and friends will share.

In addition to his nuclear family, Jeff was blessed by a tremendously close and supportive extended family of in-laws. He often joked that he was an “out-law” but considered each of them his sons, brothers, sisters, mother and father.

Some of his best memories were made with those family members on Bev’s family farm in Alpha, Ill. And that same family is the one that has helped support him through these past tough months.

Jeff was born in Belvidere, Ill., on Nov. 8, 1954, and grew up there. He received a bachelor’s degree from the University of Wisconsin-Parkside and a master’s degree from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee.

For more than 28 years, Jeff dedicated his life to helping people as a licensed clinical social worker. He specialized in treating addictions, and along the way he touched many lives both professionally and socially.

Friends would describe Jeff as gregarious, the life of any party and someone who never met a stranger. He often joked that the world revolved around him, and his intelligence and ease in conversation often made people agree.

Jeff shared his lifelong passion for the New York Yankees with his brother-in-law Chuck McLaughlin and nephew Wade McLaughlin. One of Jeff’s fondest memories was a trip to New York with Chuck and his sons Wade and Ryan to see Yankee Stadium one last time.

His love for music was one of his stronger passions as well. Jeff’s record and CD collection at a time numbered in the thousands, and he could name each one. Music was a passion his daughter Sarah shared with Jeff.

His gift for the written word was one that shocked many. Jeff was a published poet, had articles in national publications and helped do clinical writing for his profession. Daughter Abbey has followed in his footsteps, carrying on the writing legacy for her dad as a journalist.

Jeff’s love for Christ was evident in his actions. A longtime member of Community United Methodist Church, he often was one of the only tenors to sing in the choir. Like his touching poetry, the sweet sound of Jeff’s voice coming from such a strong presence was often shocking. In addition to choir, Jeff was involved in several missions and men’s projects at the church.

He lived life to the fullest, and he and his family never doubted their strong and forever love for each other.

Survivors include wife Bev, of Vincennes; daughters and sons-in-law Abbey and Michael Doyle of Anderson, Sarah and Chris Spurgeon of Evansville; mother Patricia Stewart of Belvidere, Ill.; sister Kristine and Mike Mollway of Machesney Park, Ill.; and several nieces and nephews that he loved dearly.

Jeff was preceded in death by his father and step-mother Russell and Janet Brown.

Visitation for Jeff will be from 4 to 8 p.m. Monday at Goodwin Funeral Home with his Celebration of Life service at 11 a.m. Tuesday at Community United Methodist Church with Ray Tromley and the Rev. Cheryl Garbe officiating. In lieu of flowers, memorial donations may be made to Good Samaritan Hospital Hospice or Community United Methodist Church Grief Support Fund.

Online condolences can be sent to www.goodwinfamilyfh.com.

From Abbey:

It’s been a lifetime of shoes for dad and me. We both love them. I once had a room dedicated to them. Dad could have had a wing for his collection. He was a man of great – well let’s just say eclectic – taste when it came to fashion.

Some of my earliest and fondest memories of Abbey and dad moments are when he would “dance me” resting gently atop one of those shiny pairs of shoes. We’d rock back and forth, my head barely grazing his knees. Dad would pick me up and swing me around, dancing to such songs as “My Girl,” which he would sing to me while I sang, “My dad,” back to him.

Flash forward more than two decades and once again I’m stepping on dad’s toes. This time it is just my inherited clumsy manner, not our dance technique. But as my nerves settled during our father daughter dance at my wedding – just a few weeks after I’d learned of his diagnosis with cancer – tears welled up in my eyes as all I wanted to do was say, “Daddy, can I hop on those shoes and have you dance me?” Instead I snuggled into his shoulder and let the tears fall.

It didn’t take dad getting sick for us to express our emotions – Sarah and I were raised by two social workers, what else could you expect. I’m grateful we didn’t leave anything unsaid.

Certainly I wish Dad was still here so I could tell him, “I love you,” a million more times. I wish he were here to help Michael and I raise our children. I wish I could ask him what kind of noodles to cook for dinner. I wish I could ask him if I should go with a Toyota or Honda. I won’t get to ask those questions but I know in my heart that everything that needed to be said has been.

Without a doubt I knew my daddy loved me. I also know he always realized how important he was to me and how much everything he has taught me means to me.

We promised dad that we would take care of each other. He didn’t worry for a second about how hard this whole thing would be for him, dad just worried about us. That was dad. Memories abound – meeting a boyfriend for the first time wearing a tutu on his head, painting his toe nails in sparkly pink, protective talks about no dating until graduating from medical school and talks about the baby.

I know dad was over the moon about becoming a grandpa. Telling him I was pregnant was one of the best moments for me. And even though Dad will never physically be able to meet his first grandchild – I know dad will be watching over us and his memories and lessons will definitely be passed on.

I love you daddy.

From Sarah:

Dad always shared his full self with us. This was through stories, writing, long talks and sometimes tears. The truth was at times colorful but I feel like we had the privilege of truly knowing him.

I am thankful for the appreciation of music he shared with me. From music quizzes – quick, artist, album, title and year! – on our car rides together, to long discussions about new music we wanted to introduce to each other, it was something special we shared. Dad was always patient with listening to me rattle on when I would call about anything; a silly fight Chris and I had, what had happened at work, about my first day of school each semester and after taking tests. He helped me cook and write papers over the phone and I am so glad he shared with me the secret of his world’s best tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. I will think of him every time I make them. He gave great advice, which for me mostly came down to “just take a breath and think about it for a minute”.

Through the love and respect he showed mom in their marriage he taught me the value of a strong relationship. This helped me find a good husband who got to know dad as a friend and father. Someday when we have children of our own I know he will be looking down on us to help our kids have great grammar and learn how to throw that curveball. I love him so much and will miss him every day but I know he will live on through our memories and stories. Abbey and I are lucky to have had such a great dad and I would not trade anything for the time we had with him. I am proud to say I am my father’s daughter.

--------------------------

I miss my daddy.

so tremendously overdue

2011-01-04T18:59:00.004-06:00

So my last post was more than a year and a half ago. Shameful.
It is especially shameful considering the events of the last year and a half.
Let's just say it may have been one of the most eventful 20 months of my life -- some incredibly high highs and some pretty tough lows.
So I'll just give you the Cliff Notes version:
Sept. 12, 2009, Michael and his best bud Ray (who share a birthday) were celebrating with about 30 of our friends at our house. The party was super awesome complete with a giant jumpy water slide, drive-thru daiquiris and some awesome friends. I'd made Michael and Ray's favorite cakes complete with fancy candles as well as cupcakes. There was PLENTY of cake. After the boys blew out their candles Michael says, "There's not enough cake. I got another cake because I didn't think there would be enough."
I grumbily go inside because I'm kind of pissed off because there is more than enough cake. He calls me back outside and he walks toward me with a white sheet cake in his arms with the words, "Will you marry me" written in pink icing.
So sweet. I couldn't believe it and for some reason was convinced he was going to smash it into my face.
I said yes and squealed and cried.
It was so much fun as friends filtered in later that night -- I'd say, "Look at this cake" and they'd squeal like I had.
I'm a lucky girl.
So by that Monday I had a venue and wedding date picked. My in-laws thought I was insane, but we have discussed my planning proclivities.
Wedding planning and events came and went. It was great fun. I had a wonderful shower at Aunt Brenda's house put together by my friend Tia and new family in Louisiana. Dress shopping with David was interesting. I scoured the internet for deals, DIY techniques and other craziness to make this wedding happen.
I also got a second job at Walden Books and had the best time (and got some great deals.) Everyone got books or other items from the bookstore that year for the holidays. And it was fun. If I could make as much as I make in my "real job" at the bookstore, I'd totally do that full time.
The crazy planning for the wedding -- which was also a lot of fun -- came to a screeching halt just a few weeks before the wedding itself with a phone call.
I immediately knew something was up when my mom called and said, "Are you at work?" "No." "Is Michael there?" "Yes." "Your dad has cancer."
It didn't happen all that abruptly but it felt like that. It felt like I'd been shot. I lost it. I cried like a baby. I had no idea what to do. I'm crying now typing all this. Sigh.
Michael took the phone. He got the details. It didn't really matter. Details didn't change the facts.
We all knew dad wouldn't live forever. No one does. But my dad has struggled with illnesses before. He's been at the verge of some terrible stuff but always pushed through it. And although we are hopeful he will do it again -- HOPE -- is my motto now a days, it gets harder and harder to have that hope now.
So mom, dad and Sarah came as planned (well dad wasn't going to come until the weekend of the wedding but with the news and how he was feeling came early) a week before the wedding. It was wonderful to have everyone together. It had been forever since we'd all had time together as a family.
The wedding was perfect. It was a beautiful day on March 27, 2010. We were married outside of the Samuel Guy House in Natchitoches, La. The reception was there as well. We had a brunch with mimosas, an omelet and belgian waffle station, cheese grits, sausage and biscuits.
Everyone was there. We had an awesome photo booth with costumes, we had an amazing live band -- Fat Boys South -- and it was the best time with family and friends. We started the day around 5 a.m. (getting ready, photos, etc.) and didn't stop partying until as late as 3 a.m. It was perfect.
Time came and went. Michael and I honeymooned in New Orleans and had a great time.
Work was work. We both continued to slave away at the word factory. Until late June...
With dad being sick, well really for the past several years, I've wanted to get closer to home. Dad's illness just gave the desire some urgency.
I started a job in Anderson, Ind., as the government and business reporter on July 1, 2010. I moved by myself and after just a few months of marriage Michael and I went it alone. He stayed in Louisiana living with Ray at our old house (which Ray moved into) and I moved here by myself with the Van Gogh.
It was tough, for both of us. Lots of tearful phone calls, lots of emails, lots of texts. But we made it.
In September Michael joined me and worked as a freelance reporter for both The Town Talk in Louisiana (via his desk in Indiana) and for the paper I work for here. In October he was named the sports editor at The Chronicle Tribune in Marion. It is long hours and an hour commute one way so I know it is tough for him. But he's a trooper.
I have tried to take advantage of being close to home and go see mom and dad as often as possible. Dad has good days and bad. There have been several hospital stays, even a long stint in ICU and a surgery, but we revel in the good days.
On Nov. 13, we threw a surprise party for the coolest dad around. Our pretty awesome family came from near and far to celebrate the day with us as well as friends. It was an amazing day.
The following Monday was a pretty amazing day too. Michael and I decided, even though we hadn't even been married a year, that it was time to give Van a little brother or sister. Like the move, dad's illness hastened this desire. I can't imagine my child not getting to know, or at least meet, his grandfather who is one of the most amazing people around.
So that Monday -- Nov. 15 -- I thought perhaps maybe the baby making had "stuck" and drove to Walgreen's on a full bladder (because first thing in the morning is the best time to test) picked up some tests and then rushed to work. I took the test in the bathroom at work and it was positive. I took it again. It was still positive.
I went out to my car and called my mom in tears. I called Michael. Gulp. That was his reaction. It was followed by excitement.
And from that point on Poppy was a part of our lives. Poppy is the baby's name (unknown gender) for the time being as when we found out about the baby he or she was the size of a Poppy seed.
The baby is now the size of a large plum and I'm nearly 12 weeks along. It is all very exciting.
So ups, downs and in-betweens, it has been a heck of a year and a half.
That's all for now (I've done more than enough). I will try to be a better, more dedicated blogger!

Queen of the quirks

2009-08-21T22:58:00.002-05:00

So I've spent my Friday night doing dishes, laundry and picking up the house. I'm so cool! Maybe the title of the blog should have been "new-found domestication." Anyway... while I was doing all my household chores I realized that I've got a lot of quirks.
The dishes, for example... I could do five sinks full of dishes, but those two forks and spoons -- NO! I hate, hate, hate to wash silverware. There was actually one instance where I threw away my silverware and bought new. I'm ashamed to admit that not only because it is wasteful and completely ungreen but also because it is just so super silly and ridiculous.
So, with this tiny little quirk in mind, Michael and I have a deal -- I do all the dishes and he does the silverware. Glasses may have to go the way of the Michael as well I realized as I was doing the really full sink of dishes tonight (and I don't have a good excuse other than the fact that it was a great week where I was actually able to spend several of the nights doing stuff with Michael instead of home by myself. I didn't want to do the dishes!)
I'm not sure how we can dirty that many glasses with two people. And honestly it is more like just one person. Another of my quirks has me drinking out of the same glass everyday. As icky as that sounds (and as icky as it looks) it still gets washed. It is stained though from years of juice drinking. Tang and cherry limeade Crystal Light seem to leave their mark.
The glass is from Gordo's -- a Cuban restaurant in Tallahassee. It is from my trip to Tally for my Peace Corps gal's reunion three years ago.
So I drink out of that glass 99 percent of the time. How does Michael go through 20 glasses in a week? Really, how?
There are so many more quirks -- I eat one thing at a time. And even the individual things that I eat I compartmentalize. For example, take a fried egg -- I meticulously cut around the yolk and then eat the yolk. Whoppers -- I eat all the chocolate coating and then eat the malted center.
Michael constantly is confronted with these "adorable" quirks and more! But isn't that what makes us so interesting. I am far from vanilla. And while vanilla ice cream every once in a while is a nice treat, if there was only that plain old ice cream available wouldn't we be sad!
Anyway... back to folding laundry. Hope Michael's first night covering a game this time around goes well and he gets home soon.

Pressure...

2009-08-05T20:46:00.003-05:00

There's a song called "Pressure" that is one of the ring tones on my phone. I'm not sure who sings it, David picked it as it is his ring tone. It has the same riff or sound as "Ice, Ice, Baby." Before Michael and I started dating, David was the ICE (in case of emergency) in my cell phone.
OK, there is a point to this story... pressure is the theme of the day.
We're all under it. Sometimes it seems so strong that you feel like you can't breath. It can be suffocating. The one applying the pressure probably has no idea the torture they are inflicting on you. Nine times out of 10 it is one of the people in your life that loves you the most, and what they are pressuring you about is something they think will make your life better. But it doesn't make it any less suffocating.
In addition to all being under pressure of some kind, I'm sure we all take turns doing the pressuring ourselves.
Those that know me well wouldn't be surprised to learn that I'm a planner (some would even say a tad-bit controlling, but planner is fairer and nicer). It's a compulsion. It hasn't always been that way. I've spent a good part of my life in places where time had a whole other concept than what we operate on. Maybe it is all of that uncertainty for so long that made me this way. Maybe it is the fact that I have little power over my medical woes that I desire to plan the other things in my life.
Don't get me wrong... I love chaos. I'm certainly spontaneous at times. I've had my crazy moments, but I still have a broader desire to have a "basic plan."
The last 10 months have caused that big, broad, basic plan to change pretty drastically. When I first moved here I wasn't going to even think about dating a Louisiana boy. I was going to put in my time and get the heck out of dodge. But two and a half years later and in dodge I still rest. Curled up in bed next to me (well at least on the nights that he doesn't fall asleep on the couch) is a born and bred Louisiana boy.
Here comes the pressure, which is SO far from intended. (They say the first step to addressing a problem is admitting it, right?)
I love Michael. I know I'm going to spend the rest of my life with this wonderful, wonderful man! And any talk of this magical ring -- that is nothing more than a symbol of our commitment to and love for each other to the rest of the world -- was nothing more than me being excited about the next step. I know that he loves me and has made that commitment to me without that metal and gemstone! And even sillier talk of wedding venues, flowers and babies is just crazy talk. It is the impending 30-year-old in me talking, promise.
Ladies out there, I'm not crazy for being excited about and looking forward to the rest of my life with my soul mate am I?
So, I'm going to take the pressure from my family to move closer to home for what it's worth and as it's intended -- a desire to have their baby closer to home so they can see her and take care of her.
And I hope that I can stop any unintended pressure and get across only that I'm excited about what the future holds for us.
I'm enrolling in my 12-step program tomorrow, promise!

Concern and lost irons -- things that are driving me crazy

2009-07-29T19:55:00.003-05:00

So my mother would be quick to tsk, tsk this particular post for several reasons. So I put that warning out there -- don't judge me too harshly.
Two things are making crazy right now.
The first -- I can't find my iron. I've looked every where. My house at a cursory glance is in order (well a very quick glance). But really it's a wreck. Michael moved in with me a few months ago right before I started taking 10 hours of classes and working 40 hours a week. Needless to say, I didn't have a ton of time to get things in order. And admittedly, I have a lot of crap. Most of it isn't worth a cent. I've lived and traveled to several countries and have a lot of mementos I've picked up along the way. Also, I'm a giant pack-rat! So all of those things have contributed to the fact that I can't find my iron.
I've looked everywhere -- dug through closets, looked under beds, unpacked Rubbermaid tubs stacked in the sun room and looked in all the probable spots. No luck! I'm sure a new iron won't cost too much, but I want to find MINE. And I want it now. I've got all the needed supplies for my next project (a present for Evan Otis, it's a surprise) and an iron is required. Bah!
The other thing weighing on me... concern. I know, it seems so sweet and nice and wonderful doesn't it!
Eh... I'm over it.
Am I an ungrateful brat?
I tire, though, of hearing, "Are you OK?" "How are you feeling?"
I know those sentiments are sincere and the asker has the best intentions. I get it. I am Sicky McSickerson. But for weeks after every hospital/ER stay/visit it is a cacophony of these questions/concerns. And then there are others who go even further than the occasional question.
I've had friends who have been on the verge of calling the police or fire department when they couldn't get me on the phone. I have a friend who every time he hears on the police scanner, "woman unconscious at ..." he calls and says, "are you at...?" And if I haven't returned a phone call within 15 minutes instead of thinking, "oh, she must be walking the dog" the first thought is, "Oh no, she's passed out somewhere bleeding. I have to leave work and drive there now!"
I'm sure I'm being hypocritical. I'm the first one to make up a fun comfort package full of crayons, a princess crown, play-doh, plastic bugs and dart guns for a sick co-worker or friend. I'm also the one who organizes the get well card and goes to the hospital to pass along all of our well wishes! And I'm sure I ask the dreaded questions too.
So, yeah, I'm a hypocrite, but I'm OK with it.
As bratty as it sounds, I think the concern bothers me because it reminds me that I'll always be labeled as the sick one. When my Peace Corps friends categorized everyone during our reunion, the joke about me was around the passing out (in Bangladesh is when all this started so they too were exposed to it) and when we came up with jokes about each of the reporters for a joke newsletter mine also was associated with it. I guess I just don't want to be known only as that. I want people to forget about it! (Maybe it'll go away then!)
I'm working on it. I'm working on taking it as it is meant and not getting resentful.
So forgive me if I don't eagerly reply to your concern. I'll try.
And just so you know, I'm feeling kind of crappy right now!

Do it yourself projects

2009-07-28T16:16:00.004-05:00

So this whole blog thing has opened my eyes to a whole new world of crafting. Yeah, I've always been super into "do-it-yourself" fun stuff but now I have oodles of blogs giving me inspiration. So I thought I'd share with everyone my first blog project -- my new chair! I have to give Lindsay credit for opening my eyes to all these fun blogs. Many of them are blogs she links to or blogs that were linked from one of those blogs.
Saturday night I got home from work around 10:30 p.m. Instead of working on the story I had to write for Monday's paper I was facebooking and reading all these blogs. Michael gets home from work around 12:30 a.m. and he starts playing video games and watching sports while I continued my blog hunting. Every few minutes I go, "Hey Michael, look at this." or "Ohh, look at this one!"
Around 2 a.m. I've found a project I MUST do -- reupholstering an office chair.
So we get out at 2 a.m., go to the office to pilfer a chair (I took one from the dungeon that had a tag from it saying it was purchased in 1980). Then we head to Wal-Mart (the only place open at 2:30 a.m. that sells fabric.) Of course we meander our way through the store stopping in the fruit section -- cherries, peaches and Michael had to handle every plum to find two perfect ones. Then we get some more Tang and salad dressing -- the necessities. We go by the baby department to get needed items for another craft (more details to come). Then we go to the craft section and look and look and look for fabric. There isn't any. How does Wal-Mart not carry fabric. Apparently they aren't putting the fabric sections into the new Wal-Marts.
We purchased our items and pile back into Josephine and head to the other Wal-Mart. We headed straight for the fabric department but at 3:30 a.m. it was hard to find someone to cut the fabric we picked out. And when we did find someone she was quite surly.
We get our fabric, staple gun and buttons and head out. But At this point (4:30 a.m.) I'm hungry. I'd been up since 9 a.m. working and only eaten lunch. A stop at Taco Bell for chicken burritos seemed only natural.
We got back home and we started working. We pulled off the rubber coverings and took out all the old staples and then I recovered it with the fun new fabric. Then I spray painted the rest of the chair with "watermelon" spray paint. It is spectacular. It is my guest seating at my desk!
Come by and see me and check it out!

Medical mishaps and why you just have to cry sometimes

2009-07-25T23:07:00.002-05:00

So things aren't always that exciting, and I don't know if I would classify this week as "exciting," but it was certainly eventful.
If you haven't heard my classify myself as a lemon yet you can hear me say it now (well imagine I'm saying it) "I'm a lemon! There's a lemon law that allows for a trade-in in these situations. I demand a new body!" OK, now that I've said that and I've moved on to reality, I "broke down" this week and had another "episode."
I'm throwing all these quotes in because these are the various phrases used to describe my "syncopal episodes" which are really me passing out and smacking the heck out of my head. It typically happens at the most inopportune times (not that there really are opportune times to lose consciousness). It has happened during press conferences of a national news event, outside of a burning home, in front of a brick hearth and most recently after a mayor's press briefing onto a marble floor. Fun stuff huh!
Well, far removed from it there are a few funny moments from this most recent "medical mishap." My friend Rob, who has been around for this phenomenon before was on hand. Up until a few weeks ago Rob was also a co-worker. Now he's competition. Well, unconsciousness apparently overrides competition, even "minutes before the noon." Rob knows that the whole passing thing out happens, and I am NOT a fan of 911 getting called. This is what I've been told happened:
Rob took control of the scene assuring every one that every thing was OK. That lasted for only a few minutes when he started to crumble like a little girl concerned that I'd broken my neck. Apparently I wouldn't come to, was shaking funny and laying in an odd way. Well after several minutes a city clerk took my black high-heel off and stuck it in my face. My feet are apparently stinky enough to bring me out of unconsciousness. Awesome!
Well emergency medical folks came and went. I knew the firefighters, not at all embarrassing! I didn't go with them. Instead I called a frantic Michael to come and get me to take me to the emergency room because my head and neck hurt SOOO bad. He left in such a rush that the first time he walked out of the house he didn't have a shirt on. He eventually got one on but came to pick me up wearing swim trunks, flip flops and a T-shirt.
We went to Cabrini and started the waiting game. OK, so it was only like 30 minutes but I've never had to wait in an ER. Usually they rush me right back and I was hurting. And there were terribly loud and obnoxious children screaming all around.
We get back and the poking and prodding begins. SUCKS!
We got there around noon and didn't leave until around 8 p.m. Michael, who was exhausted, was a trooper. He didn't sign up for this. I'm apparently even giving him gray hairs! But Michael eventually had to go to work, and I really didn't want to be by myself. Well, this is where living 15 hours from family makes things tough. Michael goes to work, Rob has a brand new baby and wife at home and David is on vacation. So I was going to have to be by myself.
Michael's wonderful momma though came and hung out with me. What a blessing! Even though I don't have "my family" here, I feel like Michael's family has become mine. It meant so much to me to have her there and made that experience so much better.
I came home that night and slept until the next morning when the medical mishaps continued. I woke up and the subdued feelings of nausea were full-front. I spent the day throwing up and feeling miserable. I couldn't even keep an ice cube down.
That's where having to cry came in. As great as it is to have Michael here to take care of me and his loving family it's not the same as my own momma. She called and I cried and cried. A late afternoon prescription to control the nausea made all better. Around 8 p.m. I even got hungry. Michael made me a grilled cheese sandwich (with honey butter... interesting mistake.)
All of this gobbly gook means this -- I'm tired of this whole sick thing but am not giving up and will continue to fight, I have an awesome dude to take care of me, I am grateful for my new family but I still miss and need my momma!
Happy, healthy thoughts your way!

terrible schedule... that I think I'm going to miss.

2009-07-21T17:22:00.003-05:00

So this sumer I've been going through a hellacious schedule, terrible really. But honestly I think I may miss it, at least a little. I know Michael won't though. I'm sure I'm going to be MUCH less cranky. Here's a run-down:

Mondays and Wednesdays
6:55 a.m. Get up and get ready.
8 a.m. Make cop calls, check cop briefs in email, type up and post any urgent cops news.
8:35 a.m. Kiss a soundly sleeping Michael on the head to say goodbye and drive way too far out to LSUA.
9 a.m. Sit through a ridiculous Spanish class.
12:10 p.m. Race home for a super quick lunch or scarf down disgustingly good fast food or go straight to work.
12:45 p.m. Start work.
5:10 p.m. Leave work and drive way too far to England Airpark for English class.
8:30 p.m. Leave English class for home.
8:50 p.m. Scarf down dinner and play with puppy.
9:30 p.m. Start homework for next day's Spanish class, do homework for online Criminal Justice class.
12:45 a.m. Pass out on couch.
1 a.m. Get kiss on the forehead from Michael to send me to bed.

Tuesdays and Thursdays
6:55 a.m. Get up and get ready.
8 a.m. Make cop calls, check cop briefs in email, type up and post any urgent cops news.
8:35 a.m. Kiss a soundly sleeping Michael on the head to say goodbye and drive way too far out to LSUA.
9 a.m. Sit through a ridiculous Spanish class.
12:10 p.m. Race home for a super quick lunch or scarf down disgustingly good fast food or go straight to work.
12:45 p.m. Start work.
7 to 8 p.m. Leave work to go home (depends on the work load.)
8 p.m. Eat dinner, play with puppy. (on Thursday's Michael is off and joins me for the rest of my nightly routine, sometimes even doing some of my homework for me!)
8:30 p.m. Start homework for English, Spanish and Criminal Justice.
12:45 a.m. Pass out on couch.
1 a.m. Get kiss on the forehead from Michael to send me to bed.

Friday
6:45 a.m. Get up and get ready.
8 a.m. Kiss a soundly sleeping Michael on the head to say goodbye and start work day with cop calls and runs.
12 p.m. Come home for lunch and play with puppy. Kiss a soundly sleeping Michael on the forehead to wake him up.
7ish p.m. Leave work and come home to a happy Michael who has the day off.
7:30 p.m. Eat dinner and play with puppy and boy.
8 p.m. Start homework -- Criminal Justice (and if I'm feeling exceptionally proactive I'll throw in Spanish and English).

Saturday
8:30 a.m. Get up.
9 a.m. Eat breakfast, play with puppy.
9:30 a.m. Start homework -- Criminal Justice (and if I'm feeling exceptionally proactive I'll thrown in Spanish and English.
11 a.m. Get ready and eat lunch.
12 p.m. Kiss Michael on the forehead to say goodbye. Go to work.
8 p.m. Come home and finish up homework, eat dinner and play with puppy.
1 a.m. Michael gets home from work and hopefully doesn't have to wake me up (but often he did have to).

Sunday
10 a.m. Get up and watch trashy television I've DVRed while Michael snoozes.
1 p.m. Make Michael get up.
1:30 p.m. Go to Pit Grill for Sunday terribly greasy and delicious dinner.
4:30 p.m. Michael goes to work, and I get to work on my homework. (Seriously... there was something due in my Criminal Justice class EVERY day, even on July 4th!)
11 p.m. Hopefully get to bed.

I can't believe I did it. I can't believe I didn't kill anyone throughout this summer! And now I get three weeks off (after my English final tomorrow) until next semester when I take 12 hours. I wonder what that schedule is going to look like!

All you working moms, working students, two-job workers, etc. -- I don't know how you do it!

Happy living. I'm back to studying for my English final.

ahhh... but not such a contented ahh...

2009-07-20T23:50:00.003-05:00

I told you guys I would become a blog monster. Seriously, it is addictive. I have an overwhelming desire for the two people who read the blog to know my every move. Sickening really.

Well, I'm watching my TIVOed episodes of the Newlywed Game (sorry Michael that I didn't wait for you so we could play along) while studying for my Spanish final. And as you learned from my first blog, I have an overwhelming urge to procrastinate and watching television just wasn't enough.

So I decided to check my credit report (something I've been dreading since learning that my name, social security number and date of birth are being passed around in the Connecticut "I don't wanna pay my power bill" circle). I found a few things that shouldn't be there and decided to call to put the fraud alert on my account. This means that anytime credit is requested with my information I will get a phone call, well at least for 90 days. A few more hoops, and I will be able to get this put on for seven years. But of course after I put the thing on the guy in Pakistan is trying to convince me to pay "only $14.95 a month" to have them monitor my credit every day. And when I said, "Thanks but no thanks," he made me feel guilty, like I was refusing to give my child medical care or something. Ick!

Speaking of children and medical care, poor Van Gogh has yet another ear infection. I think he may need tubes in his ears. Isn't that what they do for constant ear infections? Maybe it would help. My poor baby! He doesn't seem to be too bothered by it though, other than when he scratches his years. When he does that he cries!

ahhh...

2009-07-20T21:09:00.003-05:00

So I just got back from Cracker Barrel -- delicious comfort food! I needed it. I just finished my Spanish oral exam; I finished two papers last week and have two finals ahead of me. It was a last minute decision but one I don't regret. It wasn't because the food was extra yummy (even though it was), and it wasn't because the diet coke kept coming (which it did). It was because of the wonderful company.

I'm not sure if I say this enough (or even feel it enough) but I'm very grateful. It didn't take this silly and satisfying meal for me to realize this, but that meal did remind me. And it's the little things -- a package of chewy runts -- that slam those thoughts to the forefront. Let me give you a little background:

Michael, my BFF and beaux (I am in Louisiana after all), and I went to Walgreen's after our traditional Sunday lunch at the five star fine-dining establishment Pit Grill. While there we purchased a lifetime supply of highlighters (they have them on sale for nine cents people, so GO there NOW and stock up) and packs of pens for .19. Of course the always healthy restrained couple meandered down the candy aisle. There we discovered the boxed candies three for $3, and I innocently mentioned a desire for chewy runts. There were none there; I thought nothing more of it.

Tonight when Michael met me for dinner he says, "I've got something for you." Oh yes, it was chewy runts. How flippin' sweet!

And it isn't just the runts. He loves me a lot. And he isn't one of those "I'm too tough to show it" kind of guys. He's also not one of those obnoxious over-the-top fake kind of guys either. He's "just right," right Goldilocks? Right!

I'm not nearly as good at expressing my appreciation, my love and my admiration of him. It is there, definitely, but I'm not always so good at expressing it. Yeah, I have my moments. I got him tint for his pride and joy's first-week birthday (tint for Josephine the Versa) and when we put a moratorium on Valentine's/Birthday presents that cost to help save money in the era of furloughs I made a coupon book. But it is the little things I'm not so good at.

So, I'm going to try harder. I realize that the anti-change man (aka Michael) has gone through a lot of changes recently for me. I am grateful; I am thankful; and I'm smitten!

P.S. I'm want to see Ruby and the Rockits on ABCFamily. Just wanted to put that ridiculous thought out in the blogosphere.

blessings

2009-07-19T20:30:00.001-05:00

So I refuse to do this (unlike a certain former big-headed co-worker who likes to drop the F-bomb on a regular basis, OK, I'll just say it, ROB) on Facebook but feel like I can get away with doing it here. It is MY blog after all. And I really can do whatever I want, right? Are you wondering what it is? Are you sitting there hollering, "Tell us already! Come on, I can't take the suspense." Or is there no one reading this but Michael, and that's only because I made him and he really, really loves me? And Michael is used to me burying the lead. OK, now I'm being really mean and realizing that once I tell you what it is that I refuse to do on Facebook but plan to do on my blog will really be a super-duper let down. It will, but here goes anyway -- POST MY STORIES.

I'm such a nerd.

Anyway... here's the link and here's some behind the scenes: http://www.thetowntalk.com/article/20090719/NEWS01/907190303&referrer=FRONTPAGECAROUSEL

On Friday, I met an amazing little girl. I was bemoaning having to do this story -- about a no-name foundation building a deck around a pool gifted by a big-name foundation for a girl who was dying of cancer. I thought, "Oh, how uplifting. Sad, dying girl gets deck. That's going to be a great story."

Instead, when I show up I'm greeted at the door by a vibrant, smiling young girl wearing a hot pink shirt with green accents. Those are my two favorite colors but that wasn't the reason my poo-poo attitude about this story shot out the window. The girl who answered the door was as bald as a cue-ball but looked as healthy as any other 11-year-old girl. She got her mom who ushered us in as she frantically went around finishing getting ready. The little girl -- Christian -- plopped back down on the over-sized red sofa and continued shoveling down Ramen noodles and laughing with her BFF Grace about the current "Suite Life" episode on Disney. They were gushing about how in six hours, 54 minutes and 12 seconds the "big episode" was going to be on where it was Hannah Montana, the cast of Wizards of Waverly Place, the Suite Life and other teen dream sensations were all going to be on the same episode.

It was spooky. I had been told this girl had only weeks of "quality life" left and only months of actual life remaining yet she reminded me of any other tween I'd spent half of my teen years babysitting.

A few minutes later her mom joined us, harried rush past her and perfectly coiffed hair bouncing above her shoulders. She sat across me on the loveseat, Christian and I on the couch adjacent to it. Tia, the photographer started snapping pictures. Neither Christina (mom) or Christian were phased. With Christian less than an arm length away her mom started into her story.

In January 2008 she was diagnosed with neuroblastoma. The only symptom was a droopy eye. They were told they needed to get to St. Jude's Hospital as soon as possible and the family of five hopped in the car that night and drove to Memphis. There she went through eight rounds of chemotherapy, 15 days of radiation and surgery to remove a tumor from her adrenal gland -- 10 months of torture for the little girl and her family. They were told in September 2008 that she was cancer free; an answer to so many prayers the faithful family had put out. But in May -- just two months ago -- she was given a death sentence. The cancer was back and had ravaged her already war-torn body.

Doctors only gave her a 33 percent chance of survival the first time around. The second time though, they said there's no chance for survival. But Christian wasn't done fighting. She gave it another go with experimental drugs but it made things worse. Doctors said there was nothing left to do. The more-mature than her years Christian said, "No more. I just want to enjoy the life I have left."

So that's what the family is doing. Her mom said she feels the family is blessed. That statement instantly made me cringe, which she said it does most people. "How could we be blessed when we know our daughter will die a way too early death?" But Christina said her daughter's strength and faith has taught her and so many countless lessons. The girls short life has affected so many.

Back to the pool and deck -- Christian continued to shovel in the noodles as her mom spelled out the diagnosis and journey of the disease. She seemed unaffected. She was just hungry and ready to swim. Soon she and Grace put on their brightly colored bikinis, and we all headed out to the pool -- which was supposed to be the topic of the story.

I get chills recounting the meeting. She was so positive, so vibrant, so energetic. Doctors told the family she'd have at most three months of quality life. That was nearly three months ago and she's shown little to no signs of slowing down. And doctors said she'll probably be dead before May rolls around next year. Christian isn't thinking about that though. Instead, she said she's enjoying what time she does have, especially in that pool of hers.

The story in Sunday's Town Talk talks more about this wonderful little girl.

First blog

2009-07-19T17:09:00.000-05:00

So, I'm supposed to be working on a 12-page term paper right now. Instead (when it is due in less than seven hours and I haven't really even started) I decided I wanted to start a blog. I don't really have anything interesting to say. I'm not really all that interesting, and I'm certain no one will care. But doing this is much more fun than writing that silly old paper about the differences between civil service law enforcement agencies and non-civil service protected agencies.
Anyway... I'm sure the theme of this blog will be procrastination, which seems to be the theme of my life!