Last week—six weeks after my surgery, for anybody keeping count—I started to get some swelling behind my left ear. I approached the situation with my usual calm and aplomb. Ha, yeah right. I freaked way the hell out. In my defense, I have more than a little experience with post-op swelling, most of which resulted in doctors wanting to stick me with things—needles, tubes, or scalpels. So freaking out wasn’t maybe the best way to go, but it was justified.
As it turns out, my neurosurgeon, who I saw yesterday, is not concerned. He said that given everything that has been done to that part of my head, a little puffiness is not going to concern him. He’d probably be surprised if there weren’t something going on back there. So that’s great news, but it’s not all business as usual. I was reminded that I did just have brain surgery, and the brain, despite its resilience, is somewhat temperamental and slow to heal. It does not like being poked at, sliced into, or even exposed to air. I mean, evolution spent millions of years building defenses so that the brain would never have to encounter air. Who knew?
This being my gazillionth surgery, I don’t often consider myself all that lucky. Let’s face it, most people never have even one brain surgery. But I am lucky. All my post op symptoms—stumbling, lack of concentration, the puffiness—it’s all normal. It’s a normal part of a successful surgical procedure. During the same time I was having brain surgery, my best friend Molly was finding out that her father had terminal and inoperable cancer of the brain. She told me it’s the kind that Ted Kennedy had. She has to watch as this man who was strong and vital a short time ago becomes something else entirely. She watches as he divides his possessions among his children. She watches her mother struggle with the now, as well as with the awful future. I have a great network of family and friends who pray for me and send me happy, healing thoughts. I’d like for you all to do the same for Molly and for her father, Tom Tift.
All that is to say that I fully intend to quit freaking out and bellyaching over my little puffy spot. I intend to remember that I came through brain surgery. And sure, I’d rather not have had it, but at least it was an option. For Tom, and for many others, it isn’t.
Molly, your Kentucky family loves you and is thinking of you.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Peaks and Valleys
Remember how great I told everybody I felt a few weeks ago? Remember how I bragged about how much easier this surgery was? Remember how I said it was just a matter of building up strength and I’d be good as new, maybe better? Yeah, about that…
Turns out, that was the steroids talking. It should say under side effects: “Induces false sense of euphoria.” ‘False’ is the operative word there. I had been tapering down off the steroids for a few weeks, but then I was off them altogether and the analogy of somebody bursting my bubble is an apt one. All of a sudden, poof. Wow, do I feel like crap. So for about two weeks I did a lot of crying, a lot of moping, and a lot more crying. It was pathetic. Although, cut me some slack here—I did just have brain surgery. Yes, I realize that when you tried to point that out to me, I scoffed. Brain surgery smurgery. Pish, I said. Not one of my more enlightened or self aware moments, that.
That’s been the reason for the lack of any online presence on my part for the last few weeks. I’ve been too busy crying, deep in the throws of a depression. No one would care what I have to say anyway. I’m stupid. I’m fat. I’m ugly. I’m boring. Seriously people, it was bad. And I’m not saying I’m totally out of it, but I recognize it now, and acceptance of the problem is the first step to recovery. That, and maybe pharmaceuticals. Or gin.
Last Thursday night, I told Michael that I simply could not do this another day. I was exhausted. This most recent meltdown came after the Herculean effort of … getting a shower. I couldn’t imagine having to be responsible for someone else for one more day, especially when that someone was a very active now 21-month-old boy with absolutely no regard for my fatigue or tolerance levels. As to that, my current game plan is to devote mornings entirely to Sprout. We do whatever he wants all morning long. (And don’t think I’m not praying every morning that he’ll sleep late.) If he wants to read books, we do books. If it’s sing, we sing. Play kitchen, that’s what we do. He’s usually ready for a nap around noon or so and sleeps about two hours, sometimes longer. During that time I do pretty much nothing. I noodle around on the internet, read books, or knit. And here’s my confession: When Sprout wakes up, I try to get by with doing as little as possible. Of course I feed him and change him and perform the essentials of mothering, but by the afternoon, there’s just not a lot left in the tank. It’s basically a parade of Baby Einsteins from 3:30 to 5:00. I should probably feel guiltier about that than I actually do. I figure I’m doing the best I can. It was a lot easier to go back to work a few weeks after brain surgery when I worked an office job. Anyone who thinks being a stay at home mom is easy should spend the day with my kid—or any kid for that matter. It’s hard work and the boss is relentless.. I just keep reminding myself that the rewards are worth it,
And as to the rewards: Sprout can recite his alphabet up to H, after which point he just makes vague sounds to the tune of the Alphabet song. He can count to ten and can recognize pictures (cardboard cut-outs actually) up to five. This shouldn’t surprise you though, since I’m sure I’ve mentioned that he’s a genius.
I had to go to the doctor on Wednesday to get my ears cleaned out. Apparently, my ears have the coping skills of a teenage girl, so when confronted with adversity (in this case a high tree pollen count) they behave hysterically and disproportionate to all reason. They just produce earwax like … sorry, there’s no good simile here … like earwax producing maniacs. I mean really, like I need this right now. Well, apparently my ears and my brain are not on speaking terms because the ears didn’t get the memo that the brain is to get all the attention, at least for another week or two. So anyway, I’m in the ear, nose, and throat doc’s office in the scary-looking dentist-type chair. The nurse was taking my vitals. Okay, here’s something weird since surgery: Nobody has been able to find a pulse on me except with a stethoscope to the chest. Ha, that’s interesting huh? Yes, up until I’m in a car accident and the EMTs can’t find a pulse, decide I’m dead, and send me off to the morgue, where I wake up sometime later, rise from the gurney, and cause some morgue worker to have a coronary episode. Should I wear a medical bracelet or something that says ‘has no discernable pulse but is in fact alive’? Hmmmm. But wait, I’m off track. Actually, that’s a side effect of the surgery too, this total inability to concentrate on anything for more than a second or two. It’s like being a slightly tipsy fruit fly.
ENOUGH!
Okay, back to the dentist chair. So anyway, when the nurse put the thermometer in my mouth. Oh wait, this is funny. Every time somebody at Graves Gilbert Clinic says they’re about to take my temperature I turn my head to give them access to my ear because most hospitals—at least the ones where I’ve been a patient—have the ear thermometers. It leaves the poor nurse standing there, thermometer in hand, wondering, I’m sure, how to explain the use of such a device to me. You’d think I’d learn by now.
Okay, here’s the point of all this. Mom went with me and she said that Sprout, strapped in his stroller, began looking more and more concerned as the nurse did more things to me. When she put the thermometer in my mouth (after some awkward explaining) Mom said Sprout’s eyes started to tear, his lip quivered, then he puckered up and let loose a wail to rival an Irish Banshee before a battle. Poor baby. He does love his Mommy. I think he knows something has been going on with Mommy lately, and it’s made him very sensitive and a little clingy. All this is to illustrate that my son is a compassionate genius. Someday, he’ll find the cure for cancer and all manner of diseases. Just wait and see.
So that’s it. There’s no good reason why I haven’t blogged in a while, just this bottomless pit of despair. It’ll get better. Things have a way of doing that you know.
Turns out, that was the steroids talking. It should say under side effects: “Induces false sense of euphoria.” ‘False’ is the operative word there. I had been tapering down off the steroids for a few weeks, but then I was off them altogether and the analogy of somebody bursting my bubble is an apt one. All of a sudden, poof. Wow, do I feel like crap. So for about two weeks I did a lot of crying, a lot of moping, and a lot more crying. It was pathetic. Although, cut me some slack here—I did just have brain surgery. Yes, I realize that when you tried to point that out to me, I scoffed. Brain surgery smurgery. Pish, I said. Not one of my more enlightened or self aware moments, that.
That’s been the reason for the lack of any online presence on my part for the last few weeks. I’ve been too busy crying, deep in the throws of a depression. No one would care what I have to say anyway. I’m stupid. I’m fat. I’m ugly. I’m boring. Seriously people, it was bad. And I’m not saying I’m totally out of it, but I recognize it now, and acceptance of the problem is the first step to recovery. That, and maybe pharmaceuticals. Or gin.
Last Thursday night, I told Michael that I simply could not do this another day. I was exhausted. This most recent meltdown came after the Herculean effort of … getting a shower. I couldn’t imagine having to be responsible for someone else for one more day, especially when that someone was a very active now 21-month-old boy with absolutely no regard for my fatigue or tolerance levels. As to that, my current game plan is to devote mornings entirely to Sprout. We do whatever he wants all morning long. (And don’t think I’m not praying every morning that he’ll sleep late.) If he wants to read books, we do books. If it’s sing, we sing. Play kitchen, that’s what we do. He’s usually ready for a nap around noon or so and sleeps about two hours, sometimes longer. During that time I do pretty much nothing. I noodle around on the internet, read books, or knit. And here’s my confession: When Sprout wakes up, I try to get by with doing as little as possible. Of course I feed him and change him and perform the essentials of mothering, but by the afternoon, there’s just not a lot left in the tank. It’s basically a parade of Baby Einsteins from 3:30 to 5:00. I should probably feel guiltier about that than I actually do. I figure I’m doing the best I can. It was a lot easier to go back to work a few weeks after brain surgery when I worked an office job. Anyone who thinks being a stay at home mom is easy should spend the day with my kid—or any kid for that matter. It’s hard work and the boss is relentless.. I just keep reminding myself that the rewards are worth it,
And as to the rewards: Sprout can recite his alphabet up to H, after which point he just makes vague sounds to the tune of the Alphabet song. He can count to ten and can recognize pictures (cardboard cut-outs actually) up to five. This shouldn’t surprise you though, since I’m sure I’ve mentioned that he’s a genius.
I had to go to the doctor on Wednesday to get my ears cleaned out. Apparently, my ears have the coping skills of a teenage girl, so when confronted with adversity (in this case a high tree pollen count) they behave hysterically and disproportionate to all reason. They just produce earwax like … sorry, there’s no good simile here … like earwax producing maniacs. I mean really, like I need this right now. Well, apparently my ears and my brain are not on speaking terms because the ears didn’t get the memo that the brain is to get all the attention, at least for another week or two. So anyway, I’m in the ear, nose, and throat doc’s office in the scary-looking dentist-type chair. The nurse was taking my vitals. Okay, here’s something weird since surgery: Nobody has been able to find a pulse on me except with a stethoscope to the chest. Ha, that’s interesting huh? Yes, up until I’m in a car accident and the EMTs can’t find a pulse, decide I’m dead, and send me off to the morgue, where I wake up sometime later, rise from the gurney, and cause some morgue worker to have a coronary episode. Should I wear a medical bracelet or something that says ‘has no discernable pulse but is in fact alive’? Hmmmm. But wait, I’m off track. Actually, that’s a side effect of the surgery too, this total inability to concentrate on anything for more than a second or two. It’s like being a slightly tipsy fruit fly.
ENOUGH!
Okay, back to the dentist chair. So anyway, when the nurse put the thermometer in my mouth. Oh wait, this is funny. Every time somebody at Graves Gilbert Clinic says they’re about to take my temperature I turn my head to give them access to my ear because most hospitals—at least the ones where I’ve been a patient—have the ear thermometers. It leaves the poor nurse standing there, thermometer in hand, wondering, I’m sure, how to explain the use of such a device to me. You’d think I’d learn by now.
Okay, here’s the point of all this. Mom went with me and she said that Sprout, strapped in his stroller, began looking more and more concerned as the nurse did more things to me. When she put the thermometer in my mouth (after some awkward explaining) Mom said Sprout’s eyes started to tear, his lip quivered, then he puckered up and let loose a wail to rival an Irish Banshee before a battle. Poor baby. He does love his Mommy. I think he knows something has been going on with Mommy lately, and it’s made him very sensitive and a little clingy. All this is to illustrate that my son is a compassionate genius. Someday, he’ll find the cure for cancer and all manner of diseases. Just wait and see.
So that’s it. There’s no good reason why I haven’t blogged in a while, just this bottomless pit of despair. It’ll get better. Things have a way of doing that you know.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
Family
Family means different things to different people, and I’m talking about more than the whole step- and half- lingo that I believe is now popularly referred to as a “blended” family, which makes me think of people as smoothie ingredients, but whatever. To be honest, I’m not even sure I know what “family” means to me, which will likely make it difficult to impart a meaningful idea of the term to my son. Also, since it is mostly my family who read this blog, this post is likely to piss some people off. Oh well. I have recently come to terms with the notion that being honest with and about myself will inevitably mean making others less than happy with me. You know, I think I’ll survive it. Anyone who feels slighted by this post is free to get their own blog and slander me mercilessly. Have at it.
Family has been many things to me in my life: the foundation that keeps me standing, the pillars that allow me to stand straight in the face of a storm, a mirage that shimmers enticingly in the distance but is never truly reached, a moving target that I can never get a clear shot at. I truly believe that blood is thicker than water, but here are some other things I have learned: Whiskey is thicker than them both. When you have to give something back, family expect blood while friends are content with water—maybe a Diet Coke. A cut from family is deep and bleeds for a long, long time. Friends don’t look for themselves in you, so they are therefore not disappointed when they look at you and see … well, you, rather than a mirror.
So yeah, I’ve had some trouble with family. Who hasn’t? Life and the people who live it are complicated. For the most part, I think most of us are doing the best we can. Some days, we get a little prickly, and unfortunately, those are the days someone might unwittingly rub up against us. When that happens, somebody will get hurt. It happens. It’s life. And life is busy. Sometimes people aren’t as thoughtful as we think they ought to be. Then feelings get hurt. If there’s a way to avoid that, I surely have not found it. And I want Sprout to know that—that you’ll hurt people and they’ll hurt you and most times, nobody meant for their to be tears and bloodshed. I’m not sure that’s a lesson I can teach Sprout though. I’m 34, and I’m just now learning it myself.
What I think the most important thing to teach Sprout about family is that each person has the ability to create their own family. Michael and I believe that family transcends bonds of blood and time. People come into your life and sometimes they drift out of your life. That’s fine. It’s nothing personal. It’s just people living their own lives in their own orbits. In an ever-expanding universe, orbits shift. I can think of many people who are no longer in my life for one reason or another. I miss them, sure, but I try to remember the good things and accept that it was just time for our orbits to drift apart. There are other people who I will defy the laws of physics for however. Those people (and strangely, most of them are not my blood relations) are in my life for keeps. I won’t let them go, and I don’t mean that in an insane stalker kind of way. I just mean that there are people who are important enough to who I am, that I don’t think I could be me without them. Michael, of course, tops that list. I’m pretty sure I top his list too, so it’s all good. Then there are other people in your life who, to be brutally honest, have to be jettisoned to make room for your own sanity. It’s never pretty, and I’m not sure you can ever really kick family off your island for good, but there are certainly times when walls—high ones with “Keep Out” signs—have to be erected. In the past, I’ve been on both sides of that wall. It isn’t fun, but time and emotional distance are sometimes necessary ingredients for self preservation. I am a firm believer in not using one’s head as a battering ram against a brick wall. Seriously, it’s just easier on everybody if you turn around and walk away.
So what am I really saying here? Hell if I know. What’s the point of all of this for Sprout? Unfortunately, emotional boo-boos are part of life. For whatever reason, family carries the daggers that can most wound you. But family is also what you make it. I want Sprout to surround himself with people who are important to him, people who care deeply for him, people who accept him for who and what he is. Sometimes those people will be family members. Sometimes they won’t be. It’s a great big world out there, full of lots of wonderful people. I hope that Sprout meets a whole bunch of them and makes them his family. Of course, I hope Mommy maintains the #1 spot in his heart forever.
Family has been many things to me in my life: the foundation that keeps me standing, the pillars that allow me to stand straight in the face of a storm, a mirage that shimmers enticingly in the distance but is never truly reached, a moving target that I can never get a clear shot at. I truly believe that blood is thicker than water, but here are some other things I have learned: Whiskey is thicker than them both. When you have to give something back, family expect blood while friends are content with water—maybe a Diet Coke. A cut from family is deep and bleeds for a long, long time. Friends don’t look for themselves in you, so they are therefore not disappointed when they look at you and see … well, you, rather than a mirror.
So yeah, I’ve had some trouble with family. Who hasn’t? Life and the people who live it are complicated. For the most part, I think most of us are doing the best we can. Some days, we get a little prickly, and unfortunately, those are the days someone might unwittingly rub up against us. When that happens, somebody will get hurt. It happens. It’s life. And life is busy. Sometimes people aren’t as thoughtful as we think they ought to be. Then feelings get hurt. If there’s a way to avoid that, I surely have not found it. And I want Sprout to know that—that you’ll hurt people and they’ll hurt you and most times, nobody meant for their to be tears and bloodshed. I’m not sure that’s a lesson I can teach Sprout though. I’m 34, and I’m just now learning it myself.
What I think the most important thing to teach Sprout about family is that each person has the ability to create their own family. Michael and I believe that family transcends bonds of blood and time. People come into your life and sometimes they drift out of your life. That’s fine. It’s nothing personal. It’s just people living their own lives in their own orbits. In an ever-expanding universe, orbits shift. I can think of many people who are no longer in my life for one reason or another. I miss them, sure, but I try to remember the good things and accept that it was just time for our orbits to drift apart. There are other people who I will defy the laws of physics for however. Those people (and strangely, most of them are not my blood relations) are in my life for keeps. I won’t let them go, and I don’t mean that in an insane stalker kind of way. I just mean that there are people who are important enough to who I am, that I don’t think I could be me without them. Michael, of course, tops that list. I’m pretty sure I top his list too, so it’s all good. Then there are other people in your life who, to be brutally honest, have to be jettisoned to make room for your own sanity. It’s never pretty, and I’m not sure you can ever really kick family off your island for good, but there are certainly times when walls—high ones with “Keep Out” signs—have to be erected. In the past, I’ve been on both sides of that wall. It isn’t fun, but time and emotional distance are sometimes necessary ingredients for self preservation. I am a firm believer in not using one’s head as a battering ram against a brick wall. Seriously, it’s just easier on everybody if you turn around and walk away.
So what am I really saying here? Hell if I know. What’s the point of all of this for Sprout? Unfortunately, emotional boo-boos are part of life. For whatever reason, family carries the daggers that can most wound you. But family is also what you make it. I want Sprout to surround himself with people who are important to him, people who care deeply for him, people who accept him for who and what he is. Sometimes those people will be family members. Sometimes they won’t be. It’s a great big world out there, full of lots of wonderful people. I hope that Sprout meets a whole bunch of them and makes them his family. Of course, I hope Mommy maintains the #1 spot in his heart forever.
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