The Post After this is Sentimental and Nice. Really.

Now that “The Holidays” are over I can finally say it. Fuck Baby 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 almost the same time as me on a chat room-type website that I used when I was pregnant with Ava. Why do I torture myself by doing that? It’s the only way I know it was 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 still trying to conceive after all this time or the ones that are about the same gestation as I would have been. Even still, the stupid website must have been down or just knew letting me in was a bad idea. Can’t post or blog on my profile without logging in.

I got rid of the positive pregnancy tests almost the moment the blood stopped flowing. I woke up early on the day of my daughter’s 3rd birthday miscarrying. Now, the due date looms just about a month away. It was a totally 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 went back to the doctor right before we left Oregon and swore something had to be wrong with it but he blew me off. Unfortunately, there’s nothing like getting pregnant that makes a woman wish she were having another baby.

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

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

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

The Secret to Happiness

We have taken the plunge, moved back to Illinois, and of course 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 asked if it was miserable, and I said for some reason I’m remarkably calm about the whole thing. She then suggested that perhaps a urinary catheter is the secret to happiness. As we explained to my now 3.5 year old daughter, a straw goes in my “butt” to get my pee out because I tried and tried and could not get my pee to come out.

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

Anyway, I have been suffering from urinary retention since around Halloween. The doctors had several ideas as to the cause but at this point all those possible causes have been healed/removed so I have no idea why I can’t pee. Also, when someone says “suffering” from urinary retention, they mean it.

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

(Female family members and IRL friends: you’re probably okay, 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 my pee out. I actually told one of the doctors that I feel like I have to push harder than when I had my baby (2.5hours of pushing and more than one doctor saying there was no way she would fit through my pelvis.)

First I feel the normal need to empty my bladder. Then basically, I would sit on the loo and wait. Wait. Wait. Strain just a little to see if a stream would start. Then strain harder and get a few drops. Then spend the next 10 minutes straining 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 of having 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 the present 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 toilets in our house! Denial? Perhaps.

I have pain with this, sometimes debilitating. We think at this point it’s probably my right kidney. I can’t count how many times I’ve been to the ER during normal business hours because healthcare in America is so awesome. 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 yeast infection from the antibiotics I was on for a UTI that I probably never even had. I have never had a yeast infection confirmed, and I the one I once treated as such turned out to be an unfortunate allergy to a silicone-based lube. Those of you who know me realize I have taken antibiotics before. Once or twice. Or “a jillion” as my mom would say. I am clearly NOT prone to yeast infections, unless I am breastfeeding an infant, apparently, and the yeast obviously grows far, far away from the area I’m currently concerned about. I call Longitude and ask him to go to Walgreen’s for the billionth time and he gets me the top-of-the-line one-day treatment because he’s amazing. (I knew I could not endure more than one day of anything leaking out of me AND a hose coming out of a similar area…more on that later.) Two days later, 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 for regular doc) and say that the OTC treatment did nothing and to have the RN call me back because I probably need the strong prescription stuff. (None of this is making sense to me…usually only women who have had to treat multiple yeast infections over time need the Rx but whatever.)

I jump (as quickly as one can jump with a tube hanging out of their crotch) in the shower, switch legs for the tube because the left leg seems irritated. I SEE A HIVE THE SHAPE OF A TINY SNAKE. Exactly the shape of where 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 says clearly in black ink: made of 100% silicone.) I sure wish I had paid more attention to the fact that there is only one lube we ever buy because we know it won’t hurt me.

Okay, no this is the BESTEST part:

Urology does not return a call for 5 hours. I call them back and they say that since I haven’t had my initial appointment they cannot give me any advice about hives in my crotch. Could they not have just told me that when I called freaking out at 10am? So, I go to the ER to GET A CATHETER CHANGED. 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 latex catheter that was SENT DOWN FROM UROLOGY.

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

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

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

Things this experience has taught me:

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

-       There is no way to keep yourself clean during a heavy flow with a catheter inside you.

-       Don’t EVER, 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 the soft-ish waterproof towel thingy we used to put in the car in case the dog puked and had it on my bed. The end. Oh, and OxiClean works very well on bloodstains. The end end.

I'm working on it...

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?

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.

Death is my friend.

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.

Accepting Ativan Donations...

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.

Attractive, Inaccessible People

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.

The Next Post Won’t Be Depressing

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

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

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.

Reaping what we sow?

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?

Too Lazy to Bottlefeed

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!

Hope for the Hopeless

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