Without a Compass

ALC (or, On Happiness, Revisited)

2012-02-07T03:52:00.000-08:00

In the old blogging days, I would spend days and nights on end working on posts in my head consciously and otherwise until I knew the would come out just right. For an example: This Post about Happiness. I haven't done any of that, the thinking, that is, but it is my usual writing time, 4am, so here we go.

I miss Portland with all my heart sometimes. We have a magnet in the shape of the state of Oregon with a green heart in the middle. The company calls it, "I left my heart in Oregon". Weep. I spoke to a friend whom I've known since 3rd grade, who is currently a Portland resident along with her amazing fiance whom I've also had a long history with. She spoke the exact words I needed to hear. "This is just one of your homes. When you visit, it will just be coming home for awhile."
She would know, if anyone. She has had so many homes I'm not even sure she could count them, but Antarctica is included.

When I think of the core of our friendship I am transported back to an evening to early morning on a beach in the Bahamas, age 14?, 15?. We were so entranced by the waves, the darkness, the ships far in the distance, and that we were HERE! (Believe it or not, part of a Marching Band trip. How awesome is that?)

So I'm not sure I can remember a word of what we talked about, but the feeling comes back in an instant, in the quiet of the morning at times. Complete peace. Nirvana, if you'll allow me. I'm sure I have pictures of me with my entire head braided by a local woman who carried hair products on the beach, but I don't need them because the memory is so strong. We already loved each other, and had for a long time, but if anyone else would have been there the magic would have disappeared. Our friendship was cemented, again, as if that were necessary.

A few years later, a church trip to Paris. Heaven. We were partnered to stay in hotel rooms and host families and every night, exhaustion heavy on our eyelids, she would coax me to journal, just a bit. I can't thank her enough. I have half of a scrapbook from the trip that I can't finish because nothing would do it justice. I wouldn't have even been there, one of the most formative and amazing experiences of my life if it weren't for her. Kids with single Moms just don't sign up for trips that cost thousands of dollars, but she knew I could do it and with hard work and fundraising, I did.

Even though we had these unbelievable times away from home, I also think mostly of times at the house in Glenshire. Her parents never objected to me coming over, sometimes for more than one night, and her mom would stock the pantry with things she noticed I enjoyed. Her dad is one of those obnoxious morning people who sing (!) and throw pair after pair of rolled up tube socks to get us up just in time for school, usually just a few hours after we went to bed. Of course we moaned and complained, but that is a fond memory to this day. (We often slept together in a twin bed. How we managed that I can't imagine. Skinny teenagers, who I'm sure thought they were overweight at the time.) Often I had a paper due the next day or day after and her family would let me stay up all hours of the night, typing and fretting. I don't remember a single time when this friend went to bed before I finished, and her encouragement was (and still is) neverending.

Recently, I spent an entire day crying (Super Bowl Sunday). When I say an entire day, I'm not exaggerating. I'm always terrified of letting go because I'm afraid I'll never stop. I put on Angels in America to distract me from my physical therapy workout and just lost it. I'm sure she could barely understand me on the phone but even though I have been a horribly delinquent friend, (we're talking 6+ months) it didn't matter. I am a part of her family as much as they are of mine. Nothing can change that. Certainly not distance or time.

That's the way it's always been. We were inseparable at one time, for many years. We were the exact same height for a few years and although we don't look much alike, people called us by each others' name or just said "the twins". I was never offended when someone was blushing and apologizing profusely for calling me by her name. I honestly was heartbroken when I grew just a few inches while she stayed the same height.

I revered her and still do. She is the bravest person I know, spending literally years of her life moving from place to place, foreign countries included, to work a job with all new people. She makes friends instantly because it's impossible not to love her.
Right now she's planning a long-distance wedding which of course poses the problem of coordinating bachlorette party, shower, etc. because there's only so many places she can be at once. But when I think about it, she has friends all over the world. There is not a single place that could accommodate everyone. Unfortunately, we probably won't be having one of her showers in New Zealand, for example. Even her parents don't live exactly in her childhood hometown. But somehow, she goes on. Home is where she is right then.
For me, home is where she is right then, too. Even after all these years. I wrote This Post about another friend, who is still light-years away in Vermont.

The theme of this blog was meant to be essentially: Should I stay or should I go? And I feel I've come full circle, moving back to the motherland, but that doesn't change a thing. We chose "go", but might not ever have all of our closest friends nearby. I'm trying to be okay with that, but I think I'm going to have to hear a lot more wise words from the amazing ALC. (Soon to be ALB) :)

The Post After this is Sentimental and Nice. Really.

2012-02-05T06:47:00.000-08:00

Now that “The Holidays” are over I can finally say it. FuckBaby Jesus. My womb has felt gut-wrenchingly empty for about 34 weeks or so.I’ve been reading about other women who got pregnant over the summer at almostthe same time as me on a chat room-type website that I used when I was pregnantwith Ava. Why do I torture myself by doing that? It’s the only way I know itwas real.

This morning I tried to log back in and it wouldn’t let me.Then I re signed up just so I could say hi to some of the women who are stilltrying to conceive after all this time or the ones that are about the samegestation as I would have been. Even still, the stupid website must have beendown or just knew letting me in was a bad idea. Can’t post or blog on myprofile without logging in.

I got rid of the positive pregnancy tests almost the momentthe blood stopped flowing. I woke up early on the day of my daughter’s 3rdbirthday miscarrying. Now, the due date looms just about a month away. It was atotally unplanned pregnancy. I had gotten Mirena just a few months before(99.9% protection for up to 5 years!). Right. The damn thing fell out. I wentback to the doctor right before we left Oregon and swore something had to bewrong with it but he blew me off. Unfortunately, there’s nothing like gettingpregnant that makes a woman wish she were having another baby.

Last time I lost a pregnancy, it was early on and weconceieved Ava 3-4 months later. (Hence, getting pregnant (accidentally) taughtus we were ready. When the due date (which coincidentally was March as well) ofthe lost pregnancy came around, I remember just being frustrated. “I WOULD BEDONE BY NOW if that first one had stuck!” It’s hard to grieve the loss of apregnancy when you can’t even see your shoes, round with a daughter who remindsyou she’s okay with constant nudges.

The OB/GYN I saw a few weeks after my 2^nd miscarriagewas so optimistic. I told him all the complications I had with my lastpregnancy and he promised me that there were so many more options that justweren’t available or studied even just that many years ago and getting methrough a pregnancy wouldn’t necessarily be easy, but possible. That kept megoing for months. The possibility.

As an update to an earlier post, I am now doingself-catheterization (not nearly as bad as it sounds) when I need to so I’m notdragging a bag around. I really didn’t know how annoying it was until it wasgone. I’m also awaiting some tests and hopefully explanation as to why I can’tpee. One explanation could come from an Ortho doctor who ordered an mri of myspine. Said doctor spent way too long looking at what he could see of my spinegoing back and forth on one frame from my hip mri whispering “right there”. I’mthinking “the possibility” is probably forever gone. Ava likely will never havea biological sibling and it doesn’t help that she asks all the time where areher brother and sister.

The Secret to Happiness

2012-01-21T13:17:00.000-08:00

We have taken the plunge, moved back to Illinois, and ofcourse have mixed feelings. So many posts, so little time.

Right now I have a catheter. (Me, Latitude, the wife & mom) And at one point a friend askedif it was miserable, and I said for some reason I’m remarkably calm about thewhole thing. She then suggested that perhaps a urinary catheter is the secretto happiness. As we explained to my now 3.5 year old daughter, a straw goes inmy “butt” to get my pee out because I tried and tried and could not get my peeto come out.

Clearly the next few million blog posts are not going to bechronological because telling a story in the right order is overrated, right?

Anyway, I have been suffering from urinary retention sincearound Halloween. The doctors had several ideas as to the cause but at thispoint all those possible causes have been healed/removed so I have no idea whyI can’t pee. Also, when someone says “suffering” from urinary retention, theymean it.

(Confidential to any family members, especially male: readat your own risk. TMI approaching. Or, we might already be there. Justremember-things can’t be unread.)

(Female family members and IRL friends: you’re probablyokay, unless blood and/or medical issues make you squeamish. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.)

I’m even giving you space to think about it…

Blood…

Pee…

Tubing…

Ready? Okay.

For the past three months, I have been literally forcing mypee out. I actually told one of the doctors that I feel like I have to pushharder than when I had my baby (2.5hours of pushing and more than one doctorsaying there was no way she would fit through my pelvis.)

First I feel the normal need to empty my bladder. Then basically, I would siton the loo and wait. Wait. Wait. Strain just a little to see if a stream wouldstart. Then strain harder and get a few drops. Then spend the next 10 minutesstraining with all my might, drop by drop, taking breaks to catch my breath,until I felt like I had at least gotten enough out to relieve the feeling ofhaving to go. (My “stream”: picture squeezing a citrus fruit without seeds,luckily.)

10-40 minutes later, repeat.

Some days, I was almost normal, but between October to thepresent this problem was gradually worsened; I mentioned it to every doctor,but all my other random issues could have explained it.

At one point I was blaming it on the height of the toiletsin our house! Denial? Perhaps.

I have pain with this, sometimes debilitating. We think atthis point it’s probably my right kidney. I can’t count how many times I’vebeen to the ER during normal business hours because healthcare in America is soawesome. There’s so much more to this story but here’s the best part:

So a few days ago I thought I was developing a yeastinfection from the antibiotics I was on for a UTI that I probably never evenhad. I have never had a yeast infection confirmed, and I the one I once treatedas such turned out to be an unfortunate allergy to a silicone-based lube. Thoseof you who know me realize I have takenantibiotics before. Once or twice. Or “a jillion” as my mom would say. I amclearly NOT prone to yeast infections, unless I am breastfeeding an infant,apparently, and the yeast obviously grows far, far away from the area I’mcurrently concerned about. I call Longitude and ask him to go to Walgreen’s forthe billionth time and he gets me the top-of-the-line one-day treatment becausehe’s amazing. (I knew I could not endure more than one day of anything leakingout of me AND a hose coming out of a similar area…more on that later.) Two dayslater, itching/burning is worse, but I notice that I have no unusual goop and the itching doesn’t go very far,um, let’s just say up.

So I call my PCP (Primary Care Provider, the BS term forregular doc) and say that the OTC treatment did nothing and to have the RN callme back because I probably need the strong prescription stuff. (None of this ismaking sense to me…usually only women who have had to treat multiple yeastinfections over time need the Rx but whatever.)

I jump (as quickly as one can jump with a tube hanging outof their crotch) in the shower, switch legs for the tube because the left legseems irritated. I SEE A HIVE THE SHAPE OF A TINY SNAKE. Exactly the shape ofwhere the catheter was. I could even see the Y-shape at the end. A red, itchy,raised, hive the shape of a catheter DESIGNED TO PREVENT ALLERGIES! (It saysclearly in black ink: made of 100% silicone.) I sure wish I had paid moreattention to the fact that there is only one lube we ever buy because we knowit won’t hurt me.

Okay, no this is the BESTEST part:

Urology does not return a call for 5 hours. I call them backand they say that since I haven’t had my initial appointment they cannot giveme any advice about hives in my crotch. Could they not have just told me thatwhen I called freaking out at 10am? So, I go to the ER to GET A CATHETERCHANGED. What a waste of resources…I can’t even talk about how stupid this is.Fortunately the RNs and MD are awesome and quickly get me into a lovely latexcatheter that was SENT DOWN FROM UROLOGY.

I swear, if my life were on TV, it would be one of thoseridiculous shows that adds any possible plot twist imaginable but it’s all sounbelievable it gets cancelled after 6 episodes.

I’m considering renaming this blog: You Just Can’t Make ThisS*@T Up!

Oh, and during this I have a disabled father-in-law going infor major surgery, a preschooler having her VERY FIRST experience withdiarrhea, and, of course, my period starts unexpectedly with the heaviest flowI’ve had since my most recent miscarriage.

Things this experience has taught me:

- anyfluid, even blood, loves to follow the outside of tubing.

- Thereis no way to keep yourself clean during a heavy flow with a catheter insideyou.

- Don’tEVER, I mean EVER try to use a tampon and catheter at the same time.

The only other thing I will say is I ended up getting thesoft-ish waterproof towel thingy we used to put in the car in case the dogpuked and had it on my bed. The end. Oh, and OxiClean works very well onbloodstains. The end end.

I'm working on it...

2011-12-26T15:43:00.000-08:00

I'm thinking about coming back. I have a post in my head but my eyes don't seem to want to stay open past the three-year-old's bedtime. Notice the new location. There are many stories.

The Crickets are Chirping. At Twilight?

2009-11-23T14:32:00.000-08:00

I am a delinquent blogger. It’s not that I don’t have the call to write, it’s that I haven’t felt like I have anything worthy of posting. All the time I have spent trying to think of the perfect post has kept me from writing what’s really on my mind. Sadly, my long-awaited debut was inspired by a mainstream teen movie. Guh.

I went to see New Moon the other day. A matinee with lots of other women my age sitting alone. The peace of only having to listen to my own thoughts was overwhelming. The joy of being alone doing something enjoyable carried me for so many days I’m even considering going again.

We have been in Tualatin for almost a year. Although our whole family is much, much happier here, almost six months of unemployment has definitely taken its toll. I am not cut out to be a full-time mom. Trying to keep a toddler entertained, enriched, and healthfully fed has come close to consuming me. As I write this I am waiting to hear about a potential job offer, and trying to figure out how I’m going to climb out of this hole and become a person again. She’s still in there; I know because I heard her while alone with thoughts of vampires and humans.

Years ago, I was introduced to vampires and werewolves and all other sorts of fairy-tale creatures. As much as my adult influences would try to stop it, I got closer and closer until I could touch them, these creatures from make-believe. They’re real. As real as you or I or anyone we know. The problem is, how to merge the outside pretend-real with what I know to be real? Who gets in on the secret? How do I find the others?

Sometimes I think I see one in the eyes of someone I’ve seen at both Portland PRIDE and the Portland Aids Walk. I toy with the idea that if I join this club or that I might find someone who wants to be in the same coven. The rest of my creatures are scattered about the country, centered in the Midwest, or buried in the earth. I have met new friends here, but it’s not the same. As I get older they seem harder to find.

I know we’re in the right place, and are lucky to have a few old friends nearby, but is there any place in the world that will feel like living in Urbana in 2002? I’m content for now, but still look to a future where many of us can gather close, circle the fire, and commune.

Insomnia has it's advantages.

2009-07-06T05:36:00.000-07:00

Since my recently acquired sleeping pills only work for about six hours, I have been awake since 4am-ish, but at least I can finally post. It's strange; we are happier with our surroundings than we have been in years, perhaps ever, but my drive to write is only just returning.

Maybe I should start with a recap of the past few months in short. New jobs for both Longitude and I, back on unemployment for me, horrible nursing home experience (as an employee, not a patient), adventures with Paxil, baby to daycare, baby in pool, baby not a baby anymore, lots of walks, enjoying Portland and our suburban life, ACTUALLY MEETING FRIENDS, attempting social outings, chasing new opportunities, and being at peace.

I can't believe how happy I am in this place. It's like all of the stars aligned for us for once. This last ditch effort before moving back home has become one of the best decisions we've ever made. I have a few posts in the recesses of my mind, and some interesting and/or enjoyable events coming up.

Death is my friend.

2009-04-15T01:48:00.000-07:00

It started before I began working at nursing homes, before I had lost anyone really important. I have yet to figure out how or why it came to be, but I have a great relationship with Death.

Clearly, the whole 'god' idea didn't stick, even after 12+ years of Catholocizement, but Death and I definitely understand each other. On one hand I am incredibly lucky to have not yet lost a grandparent, parent, sibling, spouse, or child. But on the other it totally sucks to have lost two friends, of the type that are so uniquely themselves it makes the missing so much stronger.

Anyone who spends time in a nursing home will realize that Death can be kind, welcomed, and appreciated. (It has to be more time than the yearly visit to grandma where you hold your breath the whole time and try not to look at anyone.) I don't get angry at Death. I grieve, clearly I grieve, but each time I learn of another newly transitioned soul a chain-reaction of emotional events gets triggered, but never anger. For some reason, I feel that Death is a familiar friend, this entity who will see me through the hardest of times, and I know Death with always be back soon enough.

As a kid, I always wanted to read the obituaries. I rarely, if ever, recognized a name, but I liked to think about Doris Jones, 84, and those she was survived by. I liked to imagine that Melvin Smith's family would donate money in lieu of flowers to the American Cancer Society so that countless others might benefit. I also secretly dreamed of becoming a funeral director. (Secretly, because it's not something you tell people when they say, "what do you want to be when you grow up?" in their sing-song voice.)

The show Six Feet Under has brought me more comfort than anyone could imagine. Maybe it's the comfort of knowing that there is an end to this long journey on Earth, although hopefully it won't be soon.

I think the changing of the seasons has made me go a bit off, as usual.

2009-04-08T23:08:00.000-07:00

Update: This is as big as I can get it. I could try to scan it at a higher resolution, but the letter says:

Your check is being returned to you for the following reason:

The check is made out to us, but the form we received is for services by another entity.

Thank you for your prompt attention in this manner.

(the date of the check is six months before the date of the letter. they are very prompt.)

Who can tell me why I can't embiggen the image in the previous post? It makes the previous post pointless.

Perfect Example

2009-04-08T22:40:00.000-07:00

Everything Longitude and I do in life takes at least three times longer than it does for average folk. He says it's because god hates us. I don't buy the whole 'god' story, so I think we just have an aura of defeat that follows us.

Many months ago, I was considering getting an Illinois nursing license. I knew it was going to take forever, of course taking into account the aura. I worried about my alma mater not filling out the paperwork right, or some strange hold magically appearing on my old student account preventing me from ever getting my IL RN license. Within a week, I had every piece of documentation needed except one. I called the Oregon State Board of Nursing and explained what I needed, and they told me that although they had no idea what I was talking about, I should send in the blank form anyway, and include $12.

Several months after that, I had decided that getting said license was a moot point, but I still wanted to know where my check was and what had happened. The evil troll who always answers the phone told me that there's no way it ever made it there because every piece of mail crosses her desk only and she knows everything and it was impossible that it ever had arrived. Of course I raised my voice (it takes an unbelievable force to make me get out my assertiveness monkey) and said, "IF IT NEVER CROSSED YOUR DESK THEN WHERE IS MY CHECK"? I finally dropped the subject, thinking that if it ever came through our bank account I would buy a gun.

A few days ago, we received this; notice the dates on both the check and the letter:

Incidentally, we now live just blocks from the OSBN, but I am currently unarmed.

Drought

2009-04-05T13:03:00.000-07:00

I have a great post in mind, but it needs a supporting document. This would require putting the USB cable from the printer into the side of the computer, putting a piece of paper in the scanny part, and clicking a few things on the screen. Due to recent events, this is apparently too much. I should mention a few? Here:

roommates moved in, baby getting four top teeth at roughly the same rate, job interviews, orientation for new job, food stamps, unemployment application, cold weather, baby increasingly more proficient with mobility...

not in that order.

On the bright side, I am employed, Quacky's teeth are almost through the gums, and the maintenance dudes have been working on the pool/hot tub the past few days. Also, we splurged and bought a bottle of Admiral Nelson's. More to come. Really.

LMK

2009-02-20T23:56:00.000-08:00

We wonder if we could just take turns going to the same therapist, picking up where the other left off, to save money. It would also save time and effort; it can take months to explain.

I will try, in just one post.

Ten years ago, she walked up to my car, apparently in her Dairy Queen uniform, though I don’t remember this, and I thought she was so cool. In that way that high school students look at college students-much older, and wiser, and more fun. It turns out, she is actually a few months younger than me. At times, it seems she is generations older, with an ability to see anything that I could not.

Fast-forward through shared lectures, endless hours with colored pencils and our Physiology coloring books, time spent in the purple apartment with the terrifying jumping fish, experiences in feline gastrointestinal troubles, and always, Christmas.

Then came the house. I learned more that year than any other. And not just how to brush someone else’s teeth or change the sheets right out from under them, as we practiced, so that I could put it to use during my nursing clinicals. I learned how to write a poem, and how to read one. I learned how Christmas really can be the hap-happiest time of year, without having to say the word “Jesus” even once. I learned how to quilt. I learned how to pick the most amazing person to love without expecting anything in return. I learned to find movies from the recesses of Rentertainment, which would turn out to be better than anything on a Blockbuster shelf. I learned how to clean. I paid more attention to who I am and who I want to be.

Through the years only our friendship has stayed the same, after suffering through all that has altered us in life. I still am reminded of her at least ten times a day. After moving, I have realized that great friendships can endure any distance, but I’m not sure that I can.

I know that I can survive on a few visits to family a year, and many phone calls. I finally figured out that my daughter can know her family whether they are near or far. But I’m not sure that I can survive without this one friend.

Who else will name our culinary endeavors, such as “Grapey Pork” or “Goop Chicken”, and be willing to also eat them? Can anyone else really understand the feeling that necessitates the viewing of all 6 hours of Angels in America in one sitting or the last 15 minutes of the final episode of Six Feet Under? Is there anyone else who can explain that an uncircumcised penis looks like one that is wearing a sweater so that I don’t have to resort to a Google image search?

Even as I write this, I know I cannot do our friendship justice. I know that the strongest pull back to Illinois I feel is her. Perhaps some day we will get our communal farm. For now, I would settle for a plane ticket.

Accepting Ativan Donations...

2009-02-04T23:10:00.001-08:00

Today was pretty bad. One of those days where you think about a possible worse-case scenario and it lives up to your expectations and then some. I'll spare most of the details, but recount just one example for good measure.

After a particularly frustrating outing, we got back just in time for me to call about the student loan consolidation I had been waiting to hear about for so long I've lost track. I had already called twice before, asking what was taking so long. (My original application was received on October 25.) At the time, they said they would re-do the request to my lenders for the pay-off amounts for my loans because it had already been two months. Then the evil woman on the other end of the phone asked me if I knew I would lose the forgiveness benefits of Loans X and Y if I consolidated. (X and Y are currently under cancellation, and get paid off little by little for every year I work a certain number of hours as an RN.) Bastards.

I had no intention of consolidating X and Y. But, the application said that under penalty of death by nuclear fallout I must report EVERY student loan I have even if I don't want it included in the consolidation. I remember typing in the account number for Loan X and thinking about how livid I would be when they screwed up and added it even though I checked the "No, do not f&cking include this in my consolidation" box.

Of course, because of the curse that I have always carried, which has been somehow exponentially increased after taking my wedding vows, they screwed up. It will be another 60 days before they "review" my case and "see if they can fix it".

The silver lining to this day is that I had this wonderful memory of one of the first friends I made in college. I remember having a day like this one has been. I stormed out of the underground library in no mood to talk to anyone, and there he was. We lived in the same dorm, which had a church attached to it, and he said, "No matter how busy you are, sit in the church for ten minutes before you go up to your room".

I remember that sense of peace that I could find in the chapel of St. John's. A aesthetically pleasing place to sit and think in silence with other people who were also sitting (or kneeling) and thinking. Maybe it's time I found a nearby church that's pretty on the inside. Otherwise, I think I need an Ativan prescription. Either way.

**************

At the end of the horrible day, I was driving in our new town and saw a sign that looked like a squiggly line next to a large tree. A few feet ahead was an area where an actual large tree trunk was spilling onto the place where the road should have gone. Instead, the curb curved to make room for life. I heard the voice of Mr. Rogers asking if I had learned my lesson for the day.

Home is Where Your Crap Is

2009-02-01T21:59:00.000-08:00

So I'm pretty sure we have never felt at home so quickly than this move to a town that no one, not even Mr. Garmin guy, can pronounce. As soon as we had a little bit of our junk here, I felt like we had lived here for months.

The move was an adventure as are most things in our life. We had it all planned. Our Medford lease was up on the 26th. We had picked out a new place in Tualatin on our trip to Seattle the 8th. We were planning on moving up the weekend of the 16-17th. I had calculated the cubic feet of crap that was deemed worthy enough to make it to our new place. We had two friends that were going to help up pack up and pull a trailer with his Jeep. According to Uhaul online, he could pull the 6x12 trailer which would mean 400 cubic feet of our crap would fit in there. We had the trailer, his jeep, and our two cars to get 4 people, one baby, one dog, one rabbit and any crap we cared enough about to take with us. The calculations were done, we knew what would make it and what wouldn't. We could do it. One trip.

On our initial move to Oregon, we had planned on moving with almost nothing and just starting anew out here. Then her newly acquired employer gave us a relocation bonus so we decided to get a truck and pull our old car. We were still going to get a small truck to save money and limit the stuff that migrated with us but the smallest truck that could pull our car was pretty large. It held 800 cubic feet of crap. And since we did not have to thin out and prioritize what came with, it all did. Actually I think more than our stuff did. Since we had room, people gave us stuff (useful at least) and we PACKED all 800 cubic feet of it.

Now we have since gone through all of it and kept only what we needed (we are trying to be minimalists) and I had calculated it would fit into our 400 cubic foot trailer and 3 cars. Our wonderful friends came down from Portland to help on the 17th to pick up the trailer and start loading. We had been sick (well mostly Latitude and Ava) the prior week so I had not had time to pack up everything to have it ready to go. When they arrived, friend A and I went with his jeep to get the 400 cubic foot trailer from the local Uhaul center. Upon explaining what we wanted to rent, the nice Uhaul employees says "ummm, you cant pull a trailer that large with that jeep. " "Here comes my family curse better know as Murphy's Law" I thought to myself. I tried to explain to the guy that when I went to reserve the trailer online at the mail Uhaul website it said that jeep could pull that trailer. He said "yea, the website isn't that accurate, we go by our computers here (Uhaul network system). Actually I have noticed that the website is wrong a lot."

So I could not get the trailer we planned for. I got the next size trailer down which was a 5x10. The jeep could pull it and if we had to leave more stuff behind, so be it. We went out back to hook up the trailer and found out that the wiring harness on the Jeep didn't work. Luckily the trailer hooking up guy was super nice and came outside with a new wiring harness they we could buy and then install. It was a relatively simple system, it just piggybacked off the tail lights and only took up an hour or so to hook up. We got the smaller trailer and went home to reevaluate the plan.

Once home we realized the trailer we were able to pull was only: 200 cubic feet. I bet most of our readers can do the math...

Obnoxiously, we had to drive five hours south to get a second load a few days after the initial move. The only redeeming quality of that trip was leaving the baby at home. We were actually able to work as a team and get things done. I was thinking that walking in to our old apartment would make me nostalgic for the day we brought our tiny daughter home, or the day we first saw the "Entering Medford" sign after our five day drive. Instead, I realized that the only thing that gave that place an ounce of comfort was having our stuff there. It felt like we just had an extended stay at a pretty crappy hotel. I could set up a tent in someone's backyard and feel more welcomed.

Perhaps things are looking up.

Tualatin

2009-01-22T00:51:00.000-08:00

The couple sitting next to us at Starbucks had just returned from a mission trip to Cambodia with their 16 year-old son. They were pleasant and kind, and did not smell like smoke. We chatted easily while Longitude used the free Wi-Fi to hook up our utilities. We noticed that the restaurant next door had a Champagne Brunch, perhaps even a dress code. Our apartment has spotless carpet, quiet neighbors, and a jacuzzi bath. Another car stopped to let me in as I was turning onto a busy street. This was our first outing in our new city, and up to that point I was impressed.

Next was a trip to Fred Meyer. I smelled the earthy fragrance of patchouli on at least three fellow customers. We weren't the only ones with reusable grocery bags in our cart. I think we'll fit in just fine.

If you're taking the Freeway from the south, the exit before ours says, Portland Airport 25 miles. PDX to ORD will be a breeze.

The House on California Street

2009-01-16T12:34:00.001-08:00

A moment of joy, one that flits in and out of the frame, teasing, and it's Christmastime on California St.

A drop of sadness stemming from a time gone by and suddenly we're belting out the lyrics to Post Mortem Bar in a house full of woodwork and smelling like incense.

Why is it that all my life contains, every part, takes me back to a time that spans only a year of my 27? I still say, "I will never be that happy again". I am cheating my husband, my daughter, and myself when I say this. Still, it is my truth at this moment.

I have not since looked so forward to coming home, at least not with such regularity. Was it the dwelling? I have a vivid memory of Christmas Eve. Everyone else had left for family visits, but I wanted to stay one more night before traveling only a few miles to be with mine in the morning. I stared out my window. The grayness of the day was starkly contrasted by the large-bulbed, multi-colored lights that we had strung on the roof, almost losing one of our cats in the process. I took a picture, knowing this had been one of those great life-altering moments, and now have it framed in my baby's room.

From The Hours, based on the novel by Michael Cunningham:

I remember one morning getting up at dawn, there was such a sense of possibility. You know, that feeling? And I remember thinking to myself: So, this is the beginning of happiness. This is where it starts. And of course there will always be more. It never occurred to me it wasn't the beginning. It was happiness. It was the moment. Right then.

************************

We're moving to Portland this weekend.

We've Reviewed Your Resume...

2009-01-07T22:37:00.000-08:00

and would like to speak with you. Please contact me at your earliest convenience.

-Hi, thanks for calling. I'm looking for a nurse with Occupational Health experience. Do you have specific Occupational Health experience?

-Ah, no. I thought you said you reviewed my resume. The job posting said Occupational Health experience preferred, not required.

-I should probably change that. Thank you for your interest.

I hate nurse recruiters. I still don't have a job, but only 19 days left in our lease. :)

Heading through the Stargate

2008-12-31T01:58:00.000-08:00

Quacky now has an internal gyroscope that tells her exactly what orientation in space she wants to have. Tilt her too far one way, she quacks in protest. She leans too far forward, she whines. Don't dare place her so that her feet are higher than her head.

It also seems that she always knows exactly where she does or doesn't want to be, and what she should be playing with at any given moment. We used to be able to trick her by taking the dangerous plastic wrapper away and replacing it with her neigh-bear or something equally exciting. This no longer works. Expect to surrender your potato chip bag for at least 15 minutes before snacking in peace.

I wish her parents had one ounce of the certainty she possesses. Counting down the days...

30 day notice

2008-12-28T01:42:00.000-08:00

It's official. Our landlord has been notified that our apartment will be vacated, cleaned, and our keys will be turned in by January 26th. Neither of us have jobs, we don't have a place to live, but we're headed north to Portland. The strange part is that none of this feels strange at all. We pride ourselves on our spontaneity, and somehow always figure things out without much anxiety.

We've survived poverty, nine months of being on crutches followed closely by nine months of vomiting daily, unemployment, a wedding with our dysfunctional families, depression, and homelessness. Things like finding jobs and moving stuff, a dog, and a baby are simple tasks. Blindly starting over only five hours away from here does not phase us.

The hard part is trying to decide whether living in a place with unsurpassed outdoor recreational activities, near an amazing friend from the Midwest, is still better than going back to our hometown to be near family and even more friends. So far, all we can do is move onward. Attempting to find a place to fit in. Giving our dream of living "out West" another chance before possibly dragging ourselves with our tail between our legs back to a place we never could appreciate when we lived there.

Our relocation has taught us so much about ourselves and the people in our lives. We have no regrets. Let's get packing.

Attractive, Inaccessible People

2008-12-16T23:53:00.000-08:00

I place all of the following people in the same category in my brain. I believe the title might be: If Pornography Were Made Tasteful, Here are the Stars. It seems strange, but I think says a lot about me.

Mary Louise Parker

Justin Kirk

Meryl Streep

David Hyde Pierce

Gregory House, MD (not Hugh Laurie, though, he's too nice in real life)

Angelina Jolie, (but not Brad Pitt, nice guy but kind of gross)

Julia Styles

Ennis Del Mar (but not Heath Ledger, only sexy when gay and wearing a cowboy hat)

I usually can't stand the typical straight commercially "attractive" people making out scenes in movies. I'm more of a Nicole Kidman and Jude Law in Cold Mountain kind of girl. My friend Lassie and I have discussed an idea of porn for smart people, which involves a mixture of some of the above actors, written by Alan Ball and directed by Michel Gondry.

I wonder if I'll be in trouble for telling our secret.

Corner of Terror

2008-12-13T22:46:00.001-08:00

I appeared in my Grandma's living room, which is actually the combination living room/dining room/breakfast nook/kitchen due to the (strange) open floor plan. Grandpa was sweeping out one of the corners, which was full of cobwebs, which were full of dead bugs and things. At this point, I was pretty sure I was dreaming. Not because I live 2,500 miles away from that house, but because the Grandma I know would never have a corner full of yucky things.

For a while now, Grandma has had this mental and/or maybe physical breakdown, so maybe my subconscious was worried about who is cleaning her house. At any rate, suddenly Longitude was there, and he said he would sweep out the yucky things, and I was supposed to discard them once they got to the center of the room.

First, a dead pill bug. I don't know what they're really called, and I could easily look it up, but you know, those tiny black things that curl up when you touch them. Fine, here's a picture. It's curled, dried carcass was gently swept to the center of the room. I turned, and suddenly it became a massive slug bred with a hermit crab, alive and sliming a trail. I was incredibly terrified, but I knew it was my job to get rid of it.

As I pondered a way to deal with the first creature, (salt it? chase it? can you flush a cat-sized object down the toilet?) the second one, an ant sized locust-type shell, was brushed near my feet. I looked down and it had become a huge serpent, coiled and angry. Over and over, small mildly gross particles turned into increasingly ominous animals. I woke up before I had formed my extermination plan.

I worry about my emotional well-being after dreams like this. But I don't dwell on it, because my physical well-being is so much more compromised. Still working on Maslow's Safety, and even some days success in the Physiological category is all I can hope for.

The Next Post Won’t Be Depressing

2008-12-09T23:00:00.000-08:00

I have many ideas for posts that begin to take shape, but then something more pressing seeps in and I can’t focus beyond it, so I’m giving in. As our lives are somehow turning toward a move to Portland, and therefore away from the Midwest, I am thinking about the amazing people I will not likely be closer to anytime soon. This I can deal with, at least for now. As it happens, I am looking forward to a more Urban existence, and will most likely be nearer to some dear friends anyway, but that story is for another day.

I have a friend who will never be closer to us, no matter where we move in this life.

I Googled her name yesterday. I can’t fathom what I was hoping to find. Perhaps a memorial site put up by her parents that we were somehow not informed of? We all have small tidbits of cyberspace that will live on as long as the interweb does, and I did get several hits in reality. In my mind, I was going to find a YouTube video of her saying:

I’m fine. I’m content where I am. I miss you guys. When can we have another Thanksgiving in pajamas? I’ve learned the secret, and I will see you again.

The background song is always Breathe Me, and she is wearing red. This is not a dream. It’s a place my mind goes when I’ve had enough.

********************************

I have now learned a grief lesson twice over. There comes a point, months later, when the eye-popping, chest-caving-in type of sadness lessons, and life becomes a new normal. That has been the hardest time for me, by far.

I don’t like this. It’s not funny anymore. No, really, I want to see my friend again. I didn’t get enough yet. Let’s start over at the place where this all derailed, only this time let things end fairly. I spend time in the parallel universe where we are celebrating a wedding; Longitude is wearing a tux (a Hawaiian shirt?), and we are all barefoot on the beach.

Fast-forward to our daughter and theirs at a petting zoo, clambering all over the animals. Another day, at yet another backyard bonfire, her husband plays the guitar while she laughs and teases; they disappear into the tall rows of corn, leaving the rest of us to occupy their kids. “Mommy and Daddy will be back soon. They’re playing.”

In my mind it always goes much, much further. Logic tells me to stay away, grounded in reality. But somehow putting myself through pain, whether I’m daydreaming, watching Angels in America, or Googling, carries me.

December 1st Remembrance

2008-12-01T20:52:00.000-08:00

I was wondering if, on this World AIDS Day, I could tell you about Jeff?

I’ve been thinking about him daily lately for reasons unknown. Whether it’s the anniversary of his death approaching, the fact that I met him in the Fall, or some other cosmic intervention I can’t be sure. I miss him.

Jeff was this strange, bouncy, slender, comic of a person. When referring to an aspect of his personality or one of his latest actions, we would say, “that’s Jeff”, and smile. It would take up much of the interweb to describe what his friendship meant to me, so I’ll try to keep to the point. He was an amazing hugger. I think his hugs changed the world.

I recently realized that the Catholic church was teaching me to hate, during my formative years, no less. It was not all bad; I am proud of some of what religion taught me, but that is another post.

A few days ago, I was at work, and an employee whom I had never met before admitted in casual conversation that she did not learn Spanish because she lived in California and “couldn’t stand the Mexicans”. I tried, as I often do, to put myself in her frame of mind, to try to understand why she would think this an acceptable statement. I suddenly, uncontrollably flashed back to a time almost ten years ago.

I remember an unsolicited feeling of disgust, fear, and self-loathing brought on by any mention of gay men (or lesbian women, to a lesser degree). For over twenty years, I had been brainwashed to “love the sinner, hate the sin”, and to pray for the dammed soul of those who “chose” to have same-sex relations. Shortly after high school, I was able to break free from the darkness of these thoughts and realize, thanks to life experience, that my church was unbelievably wrong. I now know that palpable feeling was hate, and I can’t figure out any explanation other than it was a learned behavior. The deepest undertow of this triggered reaction was always dislike for my self, because I like to think that my adult self was trying to emerge from under the flood of Catholic belief.

I remember being trained to say that I had no sympathy for those who “brought HIV on themselves”. Literally, trained. I actually remember being coached by our youth leader on how to “defend” myself against the influence of gay people. These beliefs were so deeply rooted in my brain that to this day I am still amazed sometimes that I am the person I’ve become. It must have taken a miracle, or an average man.

I can’t remember how I was convinced to take my first trip to a gay bar, with my new roommate. Jeff was sitting in the beer garden, laughing, and telling a story about getting stung by a bee while working at Dairy Queen. We were introduced, and since I was a nursing student, he asked me what he could have done to make the pain stop. I told him he could have used a paste of baking soda and water, and he said he had tried, but all he could find was gravy powder. So far, I could not figure out why I was supposed to be hating him. For the first time, my Pavlov’s dogs reaction had not been triggered. He went on to ask why there was a weird scab forming, and I said it was because his phagocytes were busy repairing the damage. “Oh girl, my phagocytes!” We laughed. I loved him.

Heading to C-Street became our weekly vigil. The love and acceptance poured over me and washed away that terrible, conditioned feeling I now know as hate. At the end of one night, Jeff hugged me goodbye. The bar was gone, music stopped, voices silenced. His hug was the kind that made you feel like you were the only one on Earth, and that the only place he wanted to be was in that embrace. I was overwhelmed by his affection, after only knowing each other a few short weeks.

He made up a name for me. He encouraged me during a difficult hairstyle transition. He made his boyfriend buy us drinks. We laughed at the regulars: Chew Cow, K-Mart Queen, Debbie. We cleaned the Dairy Queen when we weren’t getting paid so he could come to the bar sooner. My fondest memories are of that time in my life, and may always be. I had never experienced such unconditional acceptance. I knew from then on, I owed the same to Jeff, and every other person on the planet, and have never turned back.

Out of My Discomfort Zone

2008-11-21T15:47:00.000-08:00

As I type this, I am awaiting a phone call from a potential employer. I am being seriously considered for a full-time hospice position in a town about 30 miles away. What shall I hope for? I’m not sure I can commit to a new job, a daily commute, or a new town. Conversely, can I turn down a job that would help steer my career in the direction I’ve always been curious about? Although I no longer consider myself Catholic, or traditionally religious for that matter, I still have a sense that tells me to “let go and let god”. Or let fate, destiny, karma, or something larger than myself intervene. This job found me; does that mean I have an obligation to it, like the abandoned kitten on my doorstep earlier this summer, parched?

Longitude and I would not be together now if we hadn’t just relaxed, let go of expectation, and waited for our relationship to play out. In the beginning, it was sex and talking to the wee hours of the morning. Our separate daily lives slowly merged until moving in together was an evolution, not a choice. Neither one of us struggled with commitment, because we didn’t have to. We only promised to love each other fairly, and always be willing to give our relationship the chance it deserves, the chance we gave it over six years ago.

Why is it then, that I now feel the need to play out every potential consequence of every decision, instead of just letting life happen? Has age taken away this ability? Or having a child? We have not headed back to Illinois because things didn’t fall into place, yet. I have made peace with that, and I suppose I will make peace with whatever the outcome this day will bring. I just wish I were at peace now, in the waiting, like before.

Safety Goggles

2008-11-18T00:40:00.000-08:00

So I feel like I need to blog. I have had a lot on my mind since my first entry. In fact there are several points I wish to cover. The problem is, getting them written down. I feel so discouraged. Not that writing things down is a waste of time because I know it will make me feel better to get it out but I am worried I might infect some of our soon to be loyal readers and take away what hope and drive they may have with life.

Drifting is a good way to describe my mind set because I feel like my brain is hopelessly drifting aimlessly around in my skull. Some days I do not even feel attached to my body, as I have to negotiate with it to do what I tell it to do. I guess detached is another way to describe how I feel. I know I am a part of society. I interact with people, go shopping, kept an Ice Rink running, meet people, listen, and do my best to feel a part of this experiment we call life but when it comes down to it, I feel detached. I cannot seem to be happy and content with life like most folks. I am jealous of those people who can just go to their repetitive mindless jobs and after work crack open a beer and be happy with life. I cannot. I have tried my best not to care about the big picture of life but I always fail. I was hoping having a disgustingly cute daughter would fill that void I always feel but even she does not. No matter what I try, I can occupy my time and be temporally happy and proud of my life but in the back of my drifting mind, I still wonder what the point of this exercise is.

People always say “a means to an end” when they need to justify why they are doing what they are doing. Many cases it is making a short-term sacrifice to accelerate obtaining a long-term goal. I have no problem coming up with the ‘means’ but it is the ‘end’ that eludes me. I do not know what my ‘end’ is. I know several things I would like to do with my life but none of them would constitute an end. Even my wildest dreams of opening up an Alpaca Ranch or an Outdoor Adventure Camp are great to think about and would be great if I accomplished, but they would just be means of passing time. Even if I won the lotto and could do whatever I wanted to, I know I would still be searching for my end. Is life all about an end goal? Why is it so important? Is it what we are to do with our lives to feel like fulfilled humans? Is it to have a dream out there to shoot for to tell yourself ‘someday things will be better’ while you slave along day to day?

This next part might infuriate some out there. Please keep an open mind:

Other than the group of people who can have a beer at the end of the day and be happy there is one other group of individuals I am jealous of. They are the Religious. I do not care what you believe or to what extent of your faith you believe, I am jealous. I know many strongly religious folks and many strongly atheist folks. I have tried to get into organized religion but I cannot. I have discussed this with many of my atheist friends and several agree with me. I have talked to many of my religious friends and they have tried to help me. I wish I could believe in organized religion. If I did I bet it would bring that sense purpose I lack and fill that void in my life. I want to believe. I even tried to fake it for a while to see if it started to come on its own. It did not.

I think we are all born with goggles over our eyes. These safety goggles are there to protect our minds. They filter out all those bad things in the world we all wish would just not be. They allow us to filter out what we do not want to see or admit and allow us to only see what is easy and healthy for the mind to digest. These safety goggles are there to allow us to accept things as they are told to us and not question them in. They allow us to believe and see the world through a different filter. They are kind of like beer goggles. When you have beer goggles on, you see the world in a new way. Ugly becomes pretty, stupid things become fun, things seem easier and the world seems better. The same goes for the safety goggles issued at birth. They help you to see the good in everything, trust people, and feel like a valuable, integrated member of society. They focus on puppies and rainbows but filter out things like what is in dog food and the fact that you are causing the pollution that obscures rainbows these days. They allow you to accept things on faith, be okay with answers that are given to you buy those with authority no matter how far-fetched it may seem and be content with everyday life.

My problem is must have lost my set on safety goggles at some point in my childhood. I remember being happy as a child. I remember being hopeful and ambitious about life. I also remember thinking this religious thing seeming like it was a crock of shit (I went to a Catholic grade school for 8 years). I remember even as a kid watching the other children seem to get pleasure and happiness out of religion bit I never did. I kind of felt like I was the last kid waiting on the bench to get picked for the religious team. I guess they had enough players because I never got in. Early on I realized I was different from everyone else, so I decided to play along and observe to see if I could figure out why. I never did. What I did realize is how sheltered many people are about so many things and how they will do anything to stay that way. I think they must still have on their safety goggles on. Part of me wants to tear them of to show the world I see to others but the other part of me wants to let them stay blissfully ignorant to the real world and let them enjoy life.

I keep hoping I am wrong about life and it has meaning. I keep hoping someday I will find an extra pair of safety glasses to cover my mind with. I keep hoping that I will discover my ‘end’ which makes the ‘means’ worth it. I have even thought about becoming and alcoholic to keep a pair of beer goggles on fulltime but I know that would not solve anything. Would a fresh new pair of safety goggles even solve anything?

Reaping what we sow?

2008-11-14T22:20:00.000-08:00

Standing over the crumpled, nearly lifeless body, I mourn. Dark purple face a stain against the white sterile tile background. Neck wrenched: a ghastly site.

I met Charlene only hours beforehand. Her body fails her, speech was never mastered. Her brain began drowning shortly after birth. Her fifty second year of life finds her almost completely paralyzed. I had spent 20 minutes of the morning letting a can of baby formula-like syrup drain through the tube to her stomach.

Not an hour later: I need the nurse, STAT!

Charlene is fine. Nothing to show for falling out of bed but a bruise over her left eye. She smiles. Perhaps her severe brain damage has blessed her with a failed memory, as well.

Each Nurse's Aide has fifteen or so residents to care for. Most of them require help to meet every human need. This is not legal. Chronic understaffing has caused one death and countless severe falls in the "Nursing Home" I've been assigned to in just a few weeks' time. I believe this place should be renamed: "Survival of the Fittest Home for America's Most Vulnerable". "The Place where We, Patriotic Americans, Leave Our Loved Ones to Suffer Until They Die".

I am a great Nurse. But I am responsible for thirty five residents and for filling out stacks of paperwork. I only have eight hours to be with them.

Pre-election, I heard another Nurse say that maybe Americans are getting what they deserve. I ask why, and he describes the facility's policy for drugs that are no longer needed. After a resident's discharge or death, there are scores of pills unused, sealed, untouched. They are put into piles, until two nurses have the time to do what's appropriately titled a "waste". The piles of prescription and over the counter drugs are dumped into the toilet, and with the occasional flush, thousands of dollars of medication ends up in our water. The RN signs his name and writes "wasted" on the inventory card. Just one card full of sealed pills contains a brand name drug that I happen to take. I know that they are $6 a pill, $3 with so-called good insurance. I know that this is the policy of at least two large facilities in this area, and would venture to guess there are thousands more, nationwide, using this practice.

When we treat our elderly and our resources with such insolence, can we expect one leader to pull us out of crises? I'm starting to believe that we don't deserve to be saved. I do not mourn an unknown woman, fallen to the floor. I mourn the core of my country, and the dignity of humanity.

Should I refine my search? Oregon? Illinois? Another country? Another planet?

Mark Doty, metaphor, and shameless imitation

2008-11-07T10:09:00.000-08:00

After I read this post, I decided that if I were standing in an airport in Illinois, waiting to get on a flight to Oregon, I would say the bird wants to go home. But, I think, if I were in Oregon waiting to fly to the Midwest, I would say the same thing. What have I done to myself? I now have two places I will always consider home. I may also say the bird wants to get out and build a nest, if she ever makes her way to the other side of the glass.

**********

Before falling asleep last night, Longitude asked me why I was having a sad day. I said that I feel like I’m floundering. We then had a long discussion about it, using a fish-out-of-water metaphor. I feel like I’m a fish flopping on a sidewalk, a few feet away from a murky creek of runoff water in a residential neighborhood. I’m hoping that I will flop my way to the creek, which leads to a nicer creek, which leads to a river where it’s easier to breathe, which leads to the wide ocean. I don’t know how to get to the ocean, or even where it is, so as soon as I find water I’ll just swim downstream.

A few months ago, I had talked to a nurse recruiter about a hospice nurse job. After talking with him, the one I was applying for did not seem to be a good fit. He described another one that sounded perfect, but was sorry to say that they only get openings for it once or twice a year. I never expected to hear from him again. Last night, he sent an email saying that he would like for me to apply before they put an ad in the paper. I’m calling him today. Swimming downstream.

Too Lazy to Bottlefeed

2008-11-02T17:33:00.000-08:00

It’s been over three months, I’m back to work full-time, and I’m still breastfeeding the Dinosaur. One of the downfalls of being a nurse is you learn all of the benefits of breastfeeding, and the dangers of formula feeding. Enfamil might as well be poison according to healthcare professionals. This knowledge lead to guilt, which lead me to the decision to at least give it a try. My original goal was to make it six months and see what happened after that.

I actually don’t think that bonding had anything to do with breastfeeding. Truth be told, I really didn’t like her much more than I like anyone else’s kid for at least a month. It wasn’t until three months that I got to the point where I can’t get enough of her and think everything she does is cute. I bet I would still love her even if I were sticking a bottle in her mouth every four hours.

Yet, I’m still doing it. My pump broke right as I returned to work. I figured that would be the beginning of the end. Transition to formula, only nurse at night for convenience, and be done completely in a month. After a few bottles of formula, I am totally recommitted. We are spending over $300 on a state of the art pump with rechargeable battery. Ava has been transported to my place of employment once during an eight-hour shift to get us by until it arrives. Two ounces of the formula feedings end up coming back out the top of the baby, and the other two ounces come out the bottom, rivaling the smell of the explosive cat diarrhea incident of ’07.

Nighttime feedings are so easy I hardly even remember them. One of us brings her to bed and place her somewhere in the vicinity of my nipple, and some time later I wake up with a full and sleeping baby next to me and return it to the cage. When we go places, there’s no packing of bottles and wondering where we will warm the formula, how long it can go unrefrigerated, or how much we might need. I don’t understand why people say that formula feeders are too lazy to breastfeed. Those women must be made of steel!

From Trauma Shears to Bandage Scissors

2008-10-27T20:06:00.000-07:00

I am about to start the second week of my new job. I have renamed the yellow handled shears that have “PMMC ER” engraved on the side. I am officially no longer a trauma nurse. I do nothing but pass out drugs (mostly crushed in applesauce) and change dressings on month-old wounds that will never heal.

Six months ago, I would never have considered a job which is only that. Not a career-building, educational occupation. A job. I hate that the cliché “Having a baby changes everything” holds true, even for me. I only have to work eight-hour shifts, and can disappear to my car or the bathroom to pump milk without having to answer to anyone. By taking an Emergency Department job fresh out of school, I sort of skipped over the basic entry-level job that every nurse needs on their resume. The only good thing about this new position is that it fills this requirement.

I may not be learning something new daily, but I do get to have mindless conversations with the residents while I’m working, which actually keeps me quite entertained. I can often be found crushing an MS Contin, calcium pill, and dose of Neurontin together and stirring the powder into a protein shake with thickener. I spend 80% of my time at work standing in front of the med cart. The residents, no matter how confused, have discovered that the nurses are a captive audience, so they roll right up to the cart, park, and stay until a CNA rolls them to their room.

Typical conversation:

Demented Resident: I need to go upstairs and go to bed right now.

RN (me): If we went upstairs, we’d be on the roof. There’s only one story.

DR: That’s fine. I could look for my car from the roof. It’s been missing for a long time.

RN: What kind of car do you have? I could help you look.

DR: It’s a ’69 Plymouth.

RN: Okay, I’ll keep an eye out. (Begins crushing an Ativan into applesauce)

CNA: (heard in background, talking to a visitor) Head down this hall and make a left at the fish tank.

DR: I’d like to go fishing. Can you take me to the ship?

RN: It hasn’t docked yet.

DR: Okay. Will you put my books in my stateroom when it does?

RN: Sure. I have a bite of applesauce for you.

I really can’t complain. I’m making an obscene amount of money for less than half of the responsibility I had in the ER. As long as I keep my sanity, maybe some day I’ll go back to being a contributing member of society.

Hope for the Hopeless

2008-10-25T23:35:00.000-07:00

I have always struggled to balance my social anxiety with the guilt that comes after spending too many weeks in a row locked up away from people, watching Six Feet Under. I am, to put it nicely, an introvert. Truth be told, I dislike people. I have a few friends, and a husband, who are always able to slip in under the radar and spend time with me, but they don’t count. I don’t want to make small talk with my neighbors. I dread parties, avoid social gatherings, and try not to get to know my coworkers too well. I want to live near my closest friends because they are better than any I could meet anywhere else, and let’s face it, I don’t want to go through the inconvenience of weeding out ten boring people to find one potential friend to go to a movie with. I’m picky.

But, because we thought that we would be back in central Illinois by now, I am taking acute notice of what living in Oregon has to offer. Last week, we went to the Redwood National Forest, and the northern California coast. I was enthralled by each fern frond and the salty fragrance of the ocean. I walked among the ancient trees and imagined dinosaurs hiding behind the mammoth trunks.

I stood in a circle of trees, looked above, and was able to hear the whispers of everyone I have trouble hearing on the side of the living. I remembered why we came here in the first place, our own Oregon trail.

************************************************

We were joined by one of the friends from our old home; it was like I had seen him every weekend since we moved, although it had been over a year. I dared him to crawl in what seemed to be a burrow underneath a great tree stump. He obliged, and realized it lead to the inside of the dead tree. Inside, it was a hollow, private shelter.

Each of us taking our turns crawling in drew the attention of passers by. A twenty-something with an indiscernible accent, a retired couple who said they were great grandparents, among others. I joked with them, asked them questions, took their pictures for them. I enjoyed it. Strange realization.

We walked a bit further, finding a bench so that Ava could nurse al fresco. Carved on it’s back was this: “One touch of nature makes the whole World kin.” --Shakespeare

Back to the Whiteboard

2008-10-06T13:40:00.000-07:00

We have a habit of writing everything on a giant whiteboard that has hung in a prominent place in every home we've had. (Or sits on the living room floor, like it did when I was broken on a couch and couldn't walk, so I could still reach it.) Anytime we mention something that's worth remembering, we jot it down with multicolored ink. This is what it looks like today:

For now, I think we're going to have to erase the whole thing. It seems that for as many things that were falling into place for the move, there was at least one thing holding us back. So, instead of being covered in plans for moving two adults, a baby, a bunny, and a dog, our whiteboard will again be a blank slate.

Hopefully, Mike will be able to quit his stupid, stupid job at The RRRink. (Maybe he'll blog about this; if you can't tell from the ridiculous name of the business, Longitude will be able to provide more evidence of their ineptitude.) Then, we have almost as many details to work out about staying here as we did for our moving plans. By the end of the week, it will probably be covered with new priorities.

I am just as ambivalent as I was a few months ago. I am so glad to have some more time to enjoy this place with Ava. We're taking her to see the coast for the first time in a few days. But then, I go through her clothes to pick out the ones that fit now (which were too big when I went through them mere weeks ago) and see the Christmas ones and her Halloween costume. I think for a second, "she'll wear these when we are back with our friends". But, no.

Her aliases include:

2008-10-04T22:11:00.000-07:00

The Dinosaur, Quacky or Quackaroo, Maggie, Little, Hungry Hippo, Wiggle Worm...

Boo Sack:

and Boob Sucker:

"Homer, you took a BAPTIZING for me!"

2008-10-04T17:16:00.000-07:00

Remember the episode of The Simpsons where the Flanders try to baptize the Simpson kids? Marge and Homer are seriously concerned about the damage it could do to their children and eventually rescue them from the horror, but Homer's two hairs get singed from the drops of holy water.

There are many benefits to living away from family, and I just realized how great it has been to be able to get away. We have a built in excuse to not have to spend hours with the extended family when all we really want to do on our Saturday afternoon is have sex and then eat ice cream before dinner. (Not that we've had an actual Saturday off together since Ava was conceived, anyway, but you get the point.) Spending the dreaded holidays out of town was wonderful last year. Even though I was in the hospital for Christmas and puking most of the time, I can't say how nice it was to be able to sleep as much as I wanted. Tell me again why we are thinking of moving back?

I can't think of the answer right now, but I can think of one of the reasons we left. Neither Longitude or I respond well to pressure. Usually pressure from family members is not enough to convince us to change our behavior, but it is enough to annoy us. Lately we have been getting hints, suggestions, and in some cases demands related to Ava's baptism. The possibility (probability?) of moving back ruins our ability to shrug it off and say we'll get to it sooner or later.

Neither of us feel that the pouring of water over her head will damage or repair any part of her. I don't believe there is a god who will send her to a fiery hell or children's limbo if she's not baptized. On the other hand, if there are members of our families who do genuinely worry about her well being should she not go through with it, fine. It would be a great excuse to have cake. My biggest concern for her is that she learns that she was born the way she is already meant to be, and doesn't need to do anything to become acceptable.

Little Dinosaur, I wish i could pack you up into a tiny egg and put you back inside me for safe keeping, and let you out, exactly as you are today, when it will be enough to just be you. For us, your parents, it is enough.

It's nice to dream...

2008-09-27T15:13:00.000-07:00

I would love to sit down and spend an hour or more writing a long and involved post to help empty my brain, but The Dinosaur is next to me kicking her spiders. Probably not for long. So, the sole purpose of this post is to help me decide what this blog's purpose is going to be.

(I think it's fun that the word "blog" is not in the dictionary for blogspot's spell checker thingy.)

The last thing I want to do is make it into a what I had for lunch today blog. Unless what I had for lunch was incredibly profound and had a major impact on my life. I would love to say that every post will be unbelievably well thought out and will contain lots of helpful and enjoyable links instead of just pictures of Ava. But this post alone has thrown this plan by the wayside.

I'm hoping to write enough about my current life events to have a frame of reference for the future, but I mostly just want to sort out my thoughts on virtual paper and maybe someday have one or two readers who can leave wise comments.

*******************************

It's looking more and more like we're leaving Oregon soon. Yesterday I ran some errands sans baby, and kept looking forlornly at the mountains. For a while I couldn't imagine leaving them and I wanted to call the whole thing off.

Then I got trapped in several of our town's notoriously horribly designed parking lots and came home livid. The picture perfect mountains disappeared and I came home saying, "I hate this town!".

Spirituality, or lack thereof?

2008-09-23T15:18:00.000-07:00

So I came to my computer while Ava (aka. The Dinosaur) naps with the intention of finally typing out her birthstory. I've been meaning to do it for a long time (well, since about 9 weeks ago, to be exact) but of course I checked my gmail first and changed my mind completely.

Hang in there, I swear the connections from one thing to another will make sense. Right? I make sense. Yeah.

The email I received was one of those stupid forwards from a family member (actually from one of Longitude's family members...HA!) that I usually just delete. Which is a big deal, because having gmail, I archive EVERYTHING except stupid forwards. Anyway, the email was basically saying that the majority of people in America like that "In God We Trust" is on our currency and that our nation is "Under God" every morning in classrooms across the country. The email failed to mention the source of this information, but asked: why cater to the small minority who wants the god crap removed? (Okay, not a direct quote, but I think well summarized.) I was then instructed to forward the email if I agreed with it or delete it if I don't. Well, I was going to anyway, stupid Forward!!

I obviously don't agree with this, and think that this subject has nothing to do with what the majority of people are thinking, but it's unconstiutionality. That's the way America works, right? If we did what the majority of people wanted this would be a completely different (and probably much better) place. But this is all beside the point.

I am constantly being subjected to Christian culture in my daily life. God is everywhere. He even appeared talking in my ear as I was pushing my daughter out in the hospital, in the form of an obnoxious nurse's aid. At this point of the process, I was extremely focused and confident and just wanted everyone to shut up and let me concentrate. Happily, my nurse and husband figured this out just by being in the same room with me. I was almost unable to speak or really communicate anything, so they must have figured it out by body language or ESP. Unfortunately, my nurse had a back problem so she asked the nurse's aid to come hold my leg up. (No easy task, I'll give her that; I pushed for two and a half hours.) She was good at it, and this was the only reason I did not scream at her and kick her out of the room.

Her "encouragement" went something like this:

(contraction starts)

Her: You can do this because god will help you do you want me to pray for you I've gotten people who didn't believe in him to go church just by praying for him I could tell you lots of stories when this is all over...

(contraction ends)

Me: (barely audible) I don't think that's going to help right now.

Her: (sad sigh) Don't worry, prayer will help you, I promise!

Me: I just need someone to tell me when the contraction starts because I hurt so much I can't always feel the beginning and I don't want to miss out on any pushing time. (This might have come out completely unintelligible or only in my own head.)

(contraction starts)

Husband: Can you get out of the way of the monitor so I can see when the contraction is?

Me: Is it starting? Can I push now? I'm going to anyway.

Her: Believe in the power! Me, in head: (Of Philo) Believe in him! (my dog Philo) He knows you can do this! (Philo the dog)

(contraction ends)

Me: I really just need someone to tell me when the contraction is starting. I'm fine.

Her: (completely oblivious to my actual needs, but fulfilling her own quite well) I bet the doctor is praying for you right now, he prays for all his patients.

and so on.

I couldn't believe that I was being bombarded with this. It was the first time in my life when I felt completely unable to get away from religious crap. Even after 8 years of Catholic school with forced Mass every week, at least then I knew that I could run out the door if I had to. (Although I never would have done this because I probably would have been in big trouble.) I was practically tied down, unable to walk or control anything that was happening to me and this woman was trying to convert me! I actually felt more violated by this than by all the vagina prodding and such.

So what I say to you, supposed majority of people who want god to be on our money: you can get your own trinket of any size or shape that says "In God We Trust", even with your favorite bible verse, your name on it, what have you, and keep it in your pocket, purse, or wallet. I don't want to be forced to do so.

**************************

This is another area where I feel that I just don't fit in. I actually feel quite at home in a Catholic church. Comfortable, even. But, I don't actually believe what I would have to believe to be an acceptable member, and I never will. Sometimes I think that maybe we could find some sort of church that actually values what we do, but most of the time I'm just glad to find spirituality in other things.

The only problem is that church is where many people find their closest friends, do most of their socializing, and even networking. Crap. We don't fit anywhere.

From Then to Now

2008-09-21T23:08:00.000-07:00

So where do I begin? There is so much in my head right now I am afraid to think what might come out. I guess the most prevalent item that is always blocking all other thoughts is what is life all about? After a quick end of my childhood and being thrown into the real world, I thought I had a plan formulated to occupy my life. Ever since high school I always pictured myself driving out west, with my dog in my jeep, my jeep pulling a small trailer and whatever I couldn't fit in either, wasn't meant to come with me. My plan was to drive west, find a town to stay at for awhile, work odd jobs and move on. Never staying too long in one spot, just living the simple life and enjoying the little things. I always pictured myself finding a nice secluded, untouched area of wilderness and just disappearing, living off the land roaming free of restrictions and worries. If something happened to me, the only one to be affected would be my dog.

Looking back on it, it was a good plan. The only thing that seemed to help me forget life was being in the wilderness, admiring the complex harmony of life and pretending I was a part of it. I am not sure why I never took off, probably because I was not brave enough to leave those few dear friends I had. Maybe because I never had a car that would have made it out of the state, or because I didn't have a dog. Maybe because it seemed stupid and what was the point? I would have just been running away and not facing my problems.

A combination of those reasons led me to stay, go to college which gave me more insight into the world. I still felt the same inside but at least I felt like I was doing what I 'should' according to most. I had faced many of my problems and become a better person by most accounts. I was popular, fun, smart, able to do most anything I put my mind to but I still felt the same inside. I could help all of my friends get through hard times, though decisions and make them feel good but I was still miserable inside. I had thought about killing myself several times but I knew it would only hurt others. I felt like everyone else could just enjoy life and all I could do was be alive. I would had good times, but I always had this persistent shadow that would always remind me of my emptiness.

I had a chance to go backpacking for 6 months on the Appalachian Trail so I immediately jumped at it. I took a semester of college off and got my stuff ready. I was expecting it to be the epiphany I so needed to get my life in order. It was not. Every day was amazing and it gave me much time to think. It was so beautiful and simple and complex and daunting. After a month I had come to the conclusion that I was in love. Yes that is an epiphany but not the one I was hoping for. Yes, the man whose plan was to drive west with his dog and live off the land was in love. During my month on the trail, all I wanted to do was share each moment, each creek, each leaf, each sound, each smell, each breath of fresh air with this one other person. It made me want to come steal her from the real world and bring her back to my trail world. Back in the real world she was struggling to help me with my dream and it made me realize how special she was to endure additional misery to try and bring me some happiness. I decided to leave the trail early, and hold onto my Erin forever.

I love Erin. Don't get me wrong here, I would do anything for her. Anything. She is the fuel that keeps my fire going everyday. Without her, I would be even more lost. I was hoping love was the thing missing from my life. The thing that would allow me to feel like everyone else. The thing that would end my shadow forever. The thing that would allow me to come home after a day at the office, have a beer and be content with my life. It is not. I still feel lost, like I do not belong anywhere, do not have any real direction or hope. All I seem to have is dreams. With Erin, I do not feel alone anymore. It is a great start but where do we go from here? Now we are lost together.

Ambivalence

2008-09-21T21:52:00.000-07:00

I am torn between two courses of action, and it actually hurts.

Over a year ago, we moved from the only town we had known in the flattest of the flat Midwest, to a valley in the south of Oregon. Right now both Logic and Emotion pull me back home. Toward the terribly humid in summer freezing in winter nothing fun to do outside place where our friends are. It could make sense financially-lose some salary but gain some lower costs of living. Everyone we love can get to know Ava. I want to be near people who will genuinely share in our joy at her every new ability. Even though they have seen dozens of babies bat their first toy, take their first bite of applesauce, and ride their first trike, our friends and family will gush in amazement. This awes me. The fact that the new life we created can dazzle others, not just her parents.

Don’t get me wrong, there are people here who like her. Co-workers and friends who buy her things and say how cute she is, but it will never be the same. I’m confident that we could visit often enough so that she will have memories of her grandparents, uncles, and cousins, but they won’t be a part of her day to day existence.

So, we’ve made our decision. We’ve begun planning how to get our things into a tiny trailer, and drive two cars, two adults, one baby, one dog, and one rabbit across the country. Again. I’m in the middle of applications, phone interviews, and checking the paper for houses for rent. I yearn to be there when our next friend gets married, or one of our brothers has a baby, or any of the host of celebrations to come.

We also say, often, that we don’t want to have a special savings put away labeled “money to fly back for funerals”. I hate to speculate about which events are important enough to spend thousands of dollars for. Will it be your grandma? Or mine? Before we embarked on our Oregon Trail, we knew there would someday be a reason to fly back on the next plane because our grief (guilt?) was too great.

In April, this question was answered. We didn’t even have a decision to make. For that, I am grateful. We booked our flight and dragged my huge belly across the country knowing we had no other choice. I guess we had had about a week to speculate. “Would we go if something happened?” Too afraid to use the present tense, as if saying “when” instead of “if” would somehow change anything. I awoke on the morning of the news already knowing it was over. I had three missed calls and a few texts, which of course I did not read, hoping to delay the pain until I had at least showered.

Sadly, it was the best visit we’ve ever had. I felt so lucky to be there, hoping that our mere presence would say what we could never say over the phone. Just this morning I had a twinge of thought that she would be there, holding Ava, if we just drove back home next week. Of course, she won’t. Instead, she has given me a gift. Her disappearance, her (dare I say it) death, tells me I can never let this happen again. Even though we had to get out of there, even if for only a year, I can’t help but think I should have been there.

But, as I sit on the sand hearing waves crash, I sob inside wishing my baby could grow up here. I already miss the coast, the giant redwoods, even the wildfire smoke that chokes me if I’m outside too long. It has long been my dream. The West has been pulling since I can remember. I know that if (when?) we’re all packed up driving away, my heart will ache for this place, the only place I have known with my sweet baby girl.

And the Great Work begins...

2008-09-21T21:50:00.000-07:00

She wakes up suddenly, behind me in her crib. I know that the tiny quacks she issues are the sounds she makes during dreams, but I go to her anyway. Her face is wrinkled into that of a tiny newborn, exactly the way she looked the first time they handed her to me.

Earlier, after a particularly long and satisfying meal, she puts on her “poop face”. I hold her in a sitting position for what I would consider comfort while she does her business. She hangs her head, her cheeks puff out, her eyes go glassy with concentration. She looks like an old man. Older than her father looks. I ask her if she is an old soul. “Have you been here before, baby girl?” I wonder what it was like for her in her past life, and why she’s chosen us for this one. Has she? Or is it just the luck of the draw?

I’d like to say that I know she won the lottery, but I can’t be sure of that yet.

********************

While I’m home with her for the last few weeks, I am renting Queer as Folk episodes. I’ve never seen the series before, and I’ve made it to season 2. I just watched the episode where Lindsay tries but fails to win her parents’ approval. I hope that even after all the things we do or don’t do for Ava, all the experiences we accidentally give her that will ruin her or send her running to therapy in her 30s, she never has to guess as to whether we love her. Really her. The way she is meant to be.

Inaugural Blog Post

2008-09-21T21:40:00.000-07:00

So here we go. I have no idea who I'm going to show this blog to. I'm inclined to only let strangers in cyberspace see it, but we'll see. Right now we're both just trying to figure out ourselves, hence the map jargon which I'm sure will evolve over time. And hopefully, I can convince Longitude to contribute once in a while as well. :) Thanks for reading!