my life story (Page 19)

This morning I started making some muffins and began feeling… decadent? spoiled? or some kind of thing… I wasn’t using my time to do billable work and I was feeling anxious because of it. I opened a text file and started taking notes. These notes turned into a long list to which I am now about to add bullets, photos, and a little movie. For most of you it will be tedious.
Some of you, though, might enjoy it. I’ve already found it helpful for those moments (and there are many) when my head voices are screaming “what the fuck are you doing on Twitter/Facebook/email again! don’t you do anything worthwhile?!?!?!??!” Since today was actually a pretty typical (non-billable-work) day, I believe I’ll refer to this list once in a while when I need to tell my head voices to fuck off.
So, what does Heather/serenebabe do on a typical day when she’s decided not to try and get any grantwinners.net work done? Read on and enter my world…
Not in order:
  • put Christmas music on 3 cds, find out the almost useless CD player/”radio” (ha! NO reception) in the kitchen doesn’t read the cds made on the computer
  • made:
  • pancakes (from a mix) for breakfast
    apple coconut muffins
    sloppy joe (incl. improvised version of this bbq sauce)
    chicken jerusalem started
    roasted bone-in chicken breast
  • loaded/unloaded/loaded dishwasher
  • nursed A several times
  • got pissed at a friend in email
  • woke up at 4am to nurse A, prayed she’d go back to sleep which she sort of did
  • got A to nap 2x, then once more
  • made home movies
  • swept kitchen
  • got up with A at around 5:30, not sure, really, what the time was
  • moved A to different places, gave her varied toys to keep her interested
  • made baby food from chicken, avocado, hard boiled egg yolk, butternut squash
  • listened to a near-constant groan from A that I think must be her molars (wf?!?)
  • listened to Democracy Now, Howard Zinn on Moyers, thought about what I heard
  • Facebooked, of course, Twittered, too
  • showered
  • introduced A to the joys of a metal spoon and pan (CLANG! CLANG!)
  • wondered if my email buddy had received my follow up clarifications
  • maintained a near-constant conversation with the adorable but groaning 8+ month old baby as if she were saying completely comprehensible things
  • made this note
  • thought, about 100 times with huge knots in my stomach, I should get some billable work done
  • pruned and possibly saved that beastly hanging plant
  • started some more of those beastly plants by shoving the good stems in water
  • figured out that when A does ∞ with her hand it’s either the sign for Mommy or for nursing
  • cleaned up cat puke, left some cat puke (note to self: tell J about remaining puke)
  • applied gum number stuff and had a brief reprieve from the constant sounds of discomfort (Baby2’s) (mine continued)
  • assessed the spurting kitchen faucet situation (disassembled it a bit), figured out the part we need, noted it to self for later, reassembled
  • considered the wisdom of plastic spoons in the dishwasher
  • made a decision to not fold the laundry from Tuesday, also to not finish the dismantling and reassembling of the closet full of baby/children’s clothes that fill half the master BR floor
  • understood better why Coparent doesn’t take a lot of time to rinse the dishes before loading, but still rinsed the heck out of them
  • noticed the fucking cat had eaten the remains of the chicken babyhood, planned to take a blind eye to the upcoming cat puke
  • tossed A in a sling because I just couldn’t figure out what the fucking problem was
  • tried on “work clothes skirts” and realized nothing fits anymore, all too big
  • vacuumed playroom, *around* “the chick’s home” of blocks and basket
  • picked up toys
  • enjoyed the memory of our daughter alphabetizing the spice rack, almost broke down and set it all right but realized it’s fine how it is
  • vac’d LR
  • set out overdue library books in an obvious place near the door
  • washed high chair tray about seventeen times
  • looked away when noticing the two containers (bag and basket) of clutter thrown together days before when cleaning out the car
  • felt grateful to whoever came up with this sling idea for the baby
  • considered a “you leave it out, it could get tossed in the trash” policy
  • thought how boring this note would be to most people
  • made up a little tune
  • hummed said tune while checking Tweets, made a little movie of myself in the process
  • hung up (unplugged the phone) on someone who called *just* as A was falling asleep
  • did not sweep up the piles of crap since A was asleep in the sling and I didn’t want to dip down so far
  • left the avocado pit on the floor, too
  • realized this list is *exactly* what the Twitter haters think Twitter is like. No way, people, this is inane day to day activities. Twitter (done right) is funny, informative, creative. Don’t knock it ’til you *really* try it.
  • opted for two packets of hot chocolate powder in the half-mug’s worth of leftover coffee instead of brewing a new pot
  • tweeted and txtd a request that my husband pick me up a tall peppermint mocha on his way back from picking up our baby, knew I’d probably regret it ’round 10pm
  • stepped in one of the blasted swept-up piles
  • considered the definition of feminism in a global sense and for me
  • felt quite self-congratulatory when I sliced up the sale apples (.59 a pound!) for the dehydrator
  • other stuff I didn’t note or just forgot about, you know, like rinsing out the coffee grinds, etc.
Then everyone came home and we had sloppy joes and other yummies including great sister snuggles like this:

The End.

As the train pulled away from the Saco station I saw the shape of her little blond head in the window but I couldn’t see her face. I kept blowing kisses, blowing kisses, blowing kisses, trying so hard to look excited and happy for her and her adventure.
You see, I’m not worried about her. She’s with her Daddy and she’s a strong girl. But, she’s growing up. As it has meant from the day she was born, growing up means growing away. One of the most important parts of my job as a parent is to make myself dispensable.
Notable this afternoon for me was how completely present I was with my feelings. As I lay nursing the baby hoping she’d nap long enough that I could take a proper bubble bath, the tears just started falling. Not entirely sad tears. Very mixed. So happy and proud of all the growing our little six year old has done. Wretchedly sad to have her not with me — there have only been a handful of nights we have ever been apart. Free to release the tension I’ve been carrying but not tending to because I’ve needed to be present for the girls. And moved at how stunning the baby’s smile is when she so fully greets me with love.
It took a couple hours after my older left before I could start enjoying the freedom of having the house almost entirely to myself. Truly, I had forgotten what it was like to be able to do almost anything I wanted without consulting someone else. The baby has to come along for the ride. And, sure, she made a few reasonable demands (nursing, diaper changing, talking — she’s like her sister… sometimes she’ll start getting whiny and whimpery but will cheer right up if I get next to her and start talking). But generally I was free.
As I enjoyed, sort of, the bubble bath (the tub is just too small) I realized that writing has become my getaway. No more numbing with substances or psychological games. I getaway and also find myself in writing. I wonder if that’s what a writer is. Someone who needs to write.
My quality of life and the amount I write are directly related. The more writing, the better my life. Even if the writing is mindless, or pointless (see: Facebook and memes). If I have words coming out of my head through my fingers onto the keyboard, my world stays clearer. Brighter. Better.
Instead of crawling frantically to the sensation of numbness I had a few treats (smoked salmon, chocolate square with caramel), did a lot of writing, cleaned the bathroom (to take that bath), cleaned the kitchen (getting ready for vacation), and pretty much packed up to leave for two weeks starting tomorrow. I listened to Democracy Now without having to explain all the death and destruction in the world to a six year old. It was productive. It was leisurely. It was everything I wanted it to be, and more.

“Of course, since she’s pre-term, we’ll take your baby to the NICU for 24 to 48 hours after she’s born,” said the nurse.

“No. You will not,” I said.

“Well, she could have breathing problems, and I’m sure you want the best for your baby,” he continued.

“Yes, I want the best for my baby. She’ll be staying with me or we’ll go to a different hospital,” I said, but did not shout.

“But you see, when babies are born early, there are all sorts of problems that can happen,” he insisted, clearly insulted and flustered.

“That’s fine. If she’s not well, I want you to take her and care for her. If she is well, she’s staying with me. This is not up for discussion.”

“But, we have to monitor her.”

“You’ll monitor her while she’s with me.”

“But she’ll have to be in the NICU.”

“She can go to the NICU if she’s not well, otherwise, she’ll be with me.”

“Your husband can be with her.”

“My husband can’t nurse her. She needs to be with me if she’s fine.”

“I’m going to go talk to someone.”

So began the ridiculous several hour argument with… I lost count… hospital staff members. Hospital protocol. Fine, if she’s got problems. But she might have problems. Fine, take care of her if she has problems. But she’s going to be 4 weeks early, she might need assistance. Fine, give her all the assistance she needs, but only if she needs it. Otherwise, she’s staying with me.

Hours and hours. At least 5 different people, doctors and nurses. I’m pretty sure it was more.

Earlier that morning, at 9:45am on Wednesday April 8 I was waking from a nap. There was a POP feeling in my vagina, a bit of a shock or sting feeling, and some liquid trickling out of me. I thought, how weird! That’s just like it was with Baby1 (with Baby1 I had a dream that her feet switched position and POP went the bag o’). I stood up, and, yes, indeed was flooded by warm water. I touched it, smelled it, not stinky like I’m told you’d find with pee. Waddled to the bathroom, leaking all the way, checked the toilet paper, clear. Amniotic fluid for sure. Waddled back to the bedroom. Flooding. Grabbed a pair of sweat pants to be my diaper. Waddled into the hall, told feverish Baby1 “my water broke.” She said, “what does that mean?”

(She knows what it means, but I’m sure she didn’t at that moment.) I said, “Baby2’s coming today. She’s coming now.” Baby1 squealed. We went, me waddling, to Coparent’s office. He was clearly on a work call, but I still interrupted. “My water broke.” I waited for this to sink in. He interrupted his work call, explained he had to go, apologized again and again, and hung up.
We had nothing packed. We had no plan. The night before I had decided, finally, to give up with trying to get her to turn and just schedule a c-section. That evening (Tuesday) I actually thought I might be in labor (see comments I’ve made on Facebook and emails). But, having never been in labor before I assumed it was a bad case of intestinal troubles. I was thinking it was labor enough that I timed the experience (about 4 minutes at 10:35 and again at 11:40ish). We called the midwives, called my parents to come for Baby1, planned on meeting at Maine Medical Center (best choice for early babies).

All was going well until the idiot nurse decided to try and tell me they were going to take my baby from me for 24-48 hours. What a time for me to have to go into hard ass mode. I do it fine when it’s something I care about, but, it was exhausting. Knowing when to kiss someone’s ass, knowing when to be so firm it’s scary to some people, knowing when to say “I need to talk to your supervisor,” etc. Knowing the staff out there will be talking about the drama, the difficult patient, etc. It’s very, very exhausting. I just wanted to meet my new daughter.

Well? Guess what? In all of those hours, through all of those people, it turns out no one — not ONE person — thought to mention that as soon as I was well enough to move around (wheelchair or whatever) I could go be with her in the NICU. That I’d be able to hold her and nurse her. No one mentioned that. No one thought it important to say that while Coparent could be with her every second, I could, too, as soon as I was able.

What the freaking fucking holy hell stupid ass miscommunication. Our room full of people (Coparent, Baby1, Brenda (midwife), Maureen (midwife), my parents) all heard it the same way I did. Not one of us ever got the sense that they were saying anything but, “The baby will go to the NICU no matter what and you will not see her until she’s out.” It sounded crazy at the time, but the staff were so dreadfully committed to hospital protocol the idea that anything about this was reasonable didn’t seem possible.

Before I went in for the surgery we had it agreed that the NICU nurse who was responsible for deciding how well Baby2 was after she was born would not *assume* she’d go to the NICU, but instead would evaluate her and consider a lower level of monitoring for this late-pre-term baby. We all knew it was likely she’d find something that would require the NICU stay, but there was something reassuring in knowing that she understood how important it was that she make the decision based on the case, not on protocol. I’m sorry to say the hospital visit was full of frustrations involving miscommunications or staff obsessed with protocol despite our particular circumstances.

The surgery was easy enough. I didn’t puke from the anesthesia which was nice. They also actually showed her to me as soon as she was out which they didn’t for Baby1. I was hit with my love for her on that first look. She was covered in blood and goo, and I loved her. Of course, it takes a few days for the love to sink in, but this was a nice surprise.

When Baby2 was born, at 5lbs 15oz (why does everyone always ask about and report a baby’s weight?), she did have some troubles. Coparent was with her for every second of the evaluation and beyond. I don’t remember what the troubles were, but they involved not breathing right and something else. They brought her to me and I held her, though I didn’t try to nurse her (my decision, I wanted her to be tended to).

Coparent went with her to the NICU where they attached her to heart, oxygen, and breathing monitors and put her in an isolette (I think that’s what they are called). After they finished with me (placenta out, given to the midwives, though I’m still not sure what of several options I’ll be doing with it), they took me to the room to recover. It’s a bit hazy. But, when they were going to transfer me to the “Mother and Baby” floor, the nurse who was helping me into the wheelchair told me we’d be going to the NICU immediately. Yay!

Flash forward to Friday evening and she was with us in our room at the hospital. Once she was with us, my milk really came in. Her nursing strength quadrupled. She gained back weight she’d lost since birth (even though it’s typical for babies to lose weight in the first few days after they’re born). And, mostly, we started to get to know her. When she was attached to all those tubes and wires, it was hard to bond with her. The nurses often made it awkward to be with her as much as we wanted, too. More on that later, though.
Baby1 has surprised us with the fascination she clearly feels for her baby sister. Always wants to hold her, admire her, be near her. In fact, as I write this, Baby2 is sleeping in my lap and Baby1’s arm is flung across my thigh acting as a sort of pillow for Baby2’s snorting little face. I am so proud of Baby1 — we’d never been away from each other for so long, she and I. Of course she visited during the days, but nothing is the same as being together at night.

We’ve got pictures of Baby2, of course… she’s tiny… she was about 4 weeks early, but now on day 5 of life (that’s how they say it in the hospital), she’s a nursing fiend. She sleeps most of the time, wakes to nurse, and has a few alert and awake sessions each day. She’s also a pooping fiend. Every diaper and then some. Some day I’ll detail the rest of the experience in the hospital, but, for now, I wanted to give friends and family an account of the highlights of her birth. Our whole family is resting comfortably. Happy but still a bit in shock, I think, from what we’ve just been through. This week (with a lot of my parents’ continued help) will be able finding our centers again, getting grounded. All those things we need to do to have a strong foundation. Above all else, though, we are all so grateful that Baby2 has joined our family. She just squeaked in her sleep her agreement she’s glad she’s here. Eeep!

When you see car accidents in movies, everything goes totally silent and into slow motion. The movie makers must do this because they’ve talked to accident survivors. I assume this is the case because if they were to interview me about being double t-boned in my Saturn, that’s how I would describe it. Slower than life and quieter than silence.

In 2000, I was driving to meet friends for brunch, alone in my car. I didn’t see the light, and ran a red. Two cars powered into both my front passenger and driver’s side doors. There was no sound. There was no sensation. Everything went soft and quiet and slow. I don’t remember the airbags detonating, though they did. I don’t remember glass shattering, though it did. I do remember a sort of lazy twirling of the car that must have happened after the impact. A bit like sliding on snow where you’ve lost control of the car but it’s no big deal because it’s a slow slide/turn and nothing’s in the way.

I remember seeing a group of people standing some feet away looking in the car window. I remember the paramedics or police officers poking their heads in and telling me not to move. They used the “jaws of life” to get me out, but I have no memory of that.

Someone asked me several times if I had been drinking. My response clearly confused them, “No, I haven’t had anything to drink, I’m an alcoholic.” (I was trying to say it’s been years, that I’m sober.) I remember being in the ambulance, but not clearly. I thought I remembered it pretty well until Baby1 and I took a tour of our fire station where I learned that it would be very unlikely that I was head at the back of the truck like I thought.

My mobile phone was with me, and it rang when I was in the ambulance. It was Coparent, surely wondering where I was. “Hello, I’m in an ambulance” I think I said. I put the phone down and the paramedic took it from there.

At the hospital they had a hell of a time getting both my IV in and my catheter placed. I still am only vaguely clear on what happened, but I do remember thinking, hey, this sucks that I’m lying here all naked down there and open to this group of people trying to shove something up me.

I was awake when they did the laparoscopic check for internal bleeding, inserting the tube thing just under my belly button. I remember very vividly the POP feeling as they went through layers of me. I held someone’s hand and squeezed it tight. They couldn’t give me pain meds, I think I remember, because it would mess up their diagnosis of me.

And, oh, I remember Coparent’s terrified face when he arrived in the ER. He’ll have to correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure I said to him, “I need need to not worry about you now.” As if that’s what he wanted, me worrying! He was scared, he was showing it, and I wanted to help him feel better. Sure, I’d just been in an accident of the type that is typically fatal for the driver. But I needed his permission to not worry about him.

This past weekend I found these old photographs of the car, and me, from the accident. About a week ago a pickup truck almost rear ended me. Very fast and very close. I had a physical reaction. Shock. It felt as if I was back in that quiet slow moving car. I was able to pull over and catch my breath, bring myself back to the moment. But, this accident has been the most concrete example for me of how fluid and changing memory is.

As bits keep coming back over the years, I have no idea what is real or what I’m imagining. Sometimes they feel so real but couldn’t possibly be (the direction I was lying in the ambulance). Sometimes I’m surprised I didn’t remember before. As poets have forever tried to describe love, I think I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to capture the clear silence of that crash.

We say hello. They look at us funny. We try to make polite conversation. They give polite responses paired with blank stares. The well-known “deer in headlights.” Who are we? We are From Away. Who are they? They are Real Mainers.
I’ve lived in the Midwest, the South, and all over the East Coast. I’ve visited other parts of the country as well. The styles everywhere are different; the regional languages aren’t always easy to decode. After several years, I never did learn how to talk Texan. However, only in Maine have felt I speak an entirely foreign language.
We’ve been here over five years and it still happens. I think I’m being friendly and I feel as if they think I’m totally offensive or insane. This happens in brief exchanges (paying for gas or at the market) and even still sometimes with people I’ve known casually all these years (fellow CSA farm shareholders, my husband’s former coworkers).
Is it me? Is it something I’ve said? I’ve been trying to understand the puzzling dynamic. In the process I’ve needed to disentangle the social awkwardness I’ve known my whole life because of my uniquely outgoing personality. In Minnesota, my sociable personality seemed sometimes to surprise the generally shy folks. But even when it was a bit uncomfortable, I could sense they, too, were trying to make the conversations work. So when I arrived here, I thought the deer-in-headlights response had to do with my own personal style. As the years go by, though, I come across more and more people From Away who say, “oh my gosh, yes!” when I ask them if they’ve had similar experiences.
We (From Away) are chatting away enthusiastically, trying to find common ground where we can all have a shared positive conversation. They (Real Mainers) seem to retreat into their shells with facial expressions bordering on contempt.
I’ve become convinced people From Away and Real Mainers must frequently have different meanings ascribed to our shared social interactions. Sociologist Herbert Blumer believed, as I do, that people interpret each other’s actions and interact with each other based on those interpretations. In The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, Erving Goffman offers a theatrical metaphor to describe social interactions. For Goffman, our interactions depend on our presentations to each other and our interpretations of each other’s performances. That is, I have my set of cultural values and expectations and you have yours. When we are together, our most successful interactions happen when we have an unspoken shared agreement about how to appropriately react and fit in.
What is especially puzzling, though, is the varied backgrounds of those From Away I speak to about this phenomenon – we come from entirely different worlds, different cultural languages, different socio-economic roots, but all have the same deer-in-headlights experiences with Real Mainers. How can this be?
I’ve witnessed Real Mainers interacting with none of the deer-in-headlights response. It seems so free and convivial. Their conversation dance moves smoothly from one to the other, there are no retreats into blank stares. It’s like they are a part of a super-secret club and know the handshake. Only a few times have I tried to participate in these conversations. And when I do?
Blank stares.
Until I extract myself from the situation (finish paying for my gas, for example), everyone stumbles. I get the paranoid feeling that as soon as I’ve left they quickly return to back slapping and speaking in that mysterious foreign tongue.
I used to kick myself over this. I used to try and figure out where I went wrong. These days, I’m not as surprised. I’m less fearful that I’m just making huge mistakes. It’s very clear there are communication patterns here I don’t yet grasp. Until I find some good local sources (Real Mainers) to help decode the situation, I’ll keep on chatting away knowing my conversation partner might stare at me with wide open eyes showing what I can only assume are part surprise, part judgment, part puzzlement, and mostly, a part of a world I don’t yet understand.