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.

Insomnia has it's advantages.

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.

Home is Where Your Crap Is

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.

The House on California Street

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. 

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We're moving to Portland this weekend.

30 day notice

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.

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?

Mark Doty, metaphor, and shameless imitation

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.

Back to the Whiteboard

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.

"Homer, you took a BAPTIZING for me!"

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...

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.

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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!".

Ambivalence

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.