The best thing about driving someplace alone is you can fart in the car.
The worst is that you forget you've been farting for 20 minutes solid when you pull into the hospital valet.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Misery Abhors Company subtitled If You Don't Have Anything Nice To Say, Don't Blog at All
Not that it's ever stopped me before. But sometimes, misery is a personal thing.
Am I "miserable" - not in every minute of every day but overall, let's look at the big picture.
For one thing, I'm huge. Huge as in big. As in my pelvic bones have shifted and my abdominal muscles aren't doing their job, or more specifically, are valiently trying to do their former job but are straining mightily at the task. My stomach hurts, low as in it's tearing the abdoman muscles, and high as in under my ribs stretching. My belly button has flattened, and I feel a pulling under my arms, indicating that every possible fiber of muscle and tissue are spreading.
In several words, two to be exact, "It Hurts".
Now here's the funny thing. No kidding it hurts. No shit. I'm pregnant. Um hmmm, yep, it hurts. But what is... not galling... but upsetting is, it hurts beyond my realm of expectation. I have, in old Boston vernacular, a wicked high tolerance for pain. Wicked. Meaning that i rolled my ankle two years ago and it still hurts and you never really hear me discuss it. Meaning I fell asleep during a root canal. Meaning I have the studiness of the Italian peasant woman I very likely descended from and I'm strong - like ox - and I am hearty. And I'm tired of being in pain.
But the pain, the daily pain, is constant. And unrelenting.
And adding to it is the inability to do something about it. Because in addition to being highly tolerant of pain, I also have the martyr gene, so likely I could work through it.
Pulling? Hips hurt? Alignment off? Take yoga.
Feeling low energy? Try water aerobics.
Feeling out of sorts mentally? Depressed? Take a walk around the lake.
I am...supremely... capable of working through things.
Of faking it until I make it.
Of ignoring what ails and solving it with application and dedication.
Pitting myself against it.
Instead I am...stuck. And I'm angry and frustrated about it and am unable to articulate it.
Because if I try to, I get "Oh but it could be worse" or "Oh but at least you aren't on bedrest" or 'oh but it will all be worth it"
Thank you.
Thank you very much.
Because, by golly, those things hadn't occured to me.
Here's what HAS occured to me though.
I'm stuck. I have time, money, my health, beautiful spring days, a wonderful daughter, a fantastic husband. I have a full house, in poker as well as literal terms. I am lucky. I am able to move around somewhat, as compared to my prior pregnancy, and I have, at my disposal, all things practical, a few things lavish, and myriad things unnecessary but comforting.
I get that I can't, I shouldn't, no one wants to hear me...complain.
But what also occurs to me is that life had become, was about to become easy. My pregnancy coincided with the beginning of preschool. I had two mornings off, for the first time in three years, and we had a cushion of cash that came from living in a small house, and NOT traveling for three years. This year we were planning a beach trip, local, or maybe a stay away, just we two. My weight was dropping,, we were starting to meet new "grown up" social friends, plans for Red Sox games, dinners, shows, movies together. I felt like I was rediscovering - if not actually discovering - the joys of married life. Sure our house is tiny, but we fixed the porches, and we were going to make do, and make do well.
And maybe it wouldn't suck so bad if I hadn't always delayed gratification. Someday. Someday I'll meet someone, someday I'll go to this game, have this vacation, have this drink, enjoy this life. But I didn't up until now. I worked - I grinded - through my 20s, and then my 30s. I stayed in long houred jobs and worse relationships, waiting for someday. And yes, I lived a virtuous - at least financially - life. Never wasting, never excessive - but finally, FINALLY, this was to be our time. We were finally going to get to be kids again. The "kids" we weren't.
And whoosh. Gone.
And not because I'm pregnant. Because pregnant people do things. Pregnant people vacation, go to games, out to dinner, garde, they do to the gym. Hell, pregnant people run marathons.
Just not THIS pregnant person.
Because I can't.
I am Not Allowed to.
Something that I can't get no satisfaction for expressing.
It's not "I feel like shit because I hurt"
which I do.
It's "I feel like shit because I hurt but also because a full calendar year of my life is passing, a year I can never get back, a year I delayed forever, that I'm not getting any younger and that I am crippled, hobbled, incapacitated. That I cannot walk through a mall, through a park, to the beach - without worrying what I can and cannot stop to pick up. That this looming threat is over me, while my pent up wishes are under me and the middle ground is to wait. And be jealous, and sad, of the world moving around me. That the park poses threats, that driving to visit a friend is out of the question and that my life is measured in weekly doctors appointments."
Do I know it's not cancer? Yes, thank you.
Do I realize I'm crying over a Red Sox game and a missed opportunity to host a yardsale? Yes, I do.
But do YOU realize that the day I'm allowed a reprieve from this shackle is the day that two people will be entrusted to my care and that I feel like I will never have my chance? Do you realize that I finally tasted freedom, the breeze of a seawind on my face and instead, for my troubles, I'll have 40 plus pounds to shake, a year of muscle mass to rebuild and two infants added to my lot. That another two years will be given in service to this?
Yes it was our choice and yes, it will...eventually... be the right one.
But I have a tough time sitting in a Courtyard Mariott off an industrial park while my husband goes to work, and I read a book, because my house is being painted, I can't go home, and there's no place I can "walk" to that I'm allowed to.
Am I the poor little rich girl here, yes. You betcha.
Do other people have real issues - money woes, hardships, illness, strife. Failed marriages, failed friendships, yes. And btw, I have those things too. But the point is this. What if you worked hard, really REALLY hard. What if you did sacrifice, pay the piper, pay your dues. What if you said no to a thousand chocolate cakes and two thousand vacations, and what if one day, it all became worth it. That you were standing on the pinacle, raising your arm to catch the golden ring, the holy grail, the jeweled chalice. What if it was all right there in front of you, your dream, your lifes work. What if you were RIGHT THERE, and suddenly, someone came behind you and kicked you down a hill. Not a huge hill, not one you hadn't climbed, but a hill nonethe less, a hill so shallow that you could still see the clouds, you could still see the flag waving - and then that someone, that ass kicker, said to you - you have to wait a year before you can climb again. You can see it, you can taste it, you are capable of reaching it.. but if you take one false step between now and then, you will have everything taken away from you.
That, my friend, is depressing.
And miserable.
Am I "miserable" - not in every minute of every day but overall, let's look at the big picture.
For one thing, I'm huge. Huge as in big. As in my pelvic bones have shifted and my abdominal muscles aren't doing their job, or more specifically, are valiently trying to do their former job but are straining mightily at the task. My stomach hurts, low as in it's tearing the abdoman muscles, and high as in under my ribs stretching. My belly button has flattened, and I feel a pulling under my arms, indicating that every possible fiber of muscle and tissue are spreading.
In several words, two to be exact, "It Hurts".
Now here's the funny thing. No kidding it hurts. No shit. I'm pregnant. Um hmmm, yep, it hurts. But what is... not galling... but upsetting is, it hurts beyond my realm of expectation. I have, in old Boston vernacular, a wicked high tolerance for pain. Wicked. Meaning that i rolled my ankle two years ago and it still hurts and you never really hear me discuss it. Meaning I fell asleep during a root canal. Meaning I have the studiness of the Italian peasant woman I very likely descended from and I'm strong - like ox - and I am hearty. And I'm tired of being in pain.
But the pain, the daily pain, is constant. And unrelenting.
And adding to it is the inability to do something about it. Because in addition to being highly tolerant of pain, I also have the martyr gene, so likely I could work through it.
Pulling? Hips hurt? Alignment off? Take yoga.
Feeling low energy? Try water aerobics.
Feeling out of sorts mentally? Depressed? Take a walk around the lake.
I am...supremely... capable of working through things.
Of faking it until I make it.
Of ignoring what ails and solving it with application and dedication.
Pitting myself against it.
Instead I am...stuck. And I'm angry and frustrated about it and am unable to articulate it.
Because if I try to, I get "Oh but it could be worse" or "Oh but at least you aren't on bedrest" or 'oh but it will all be worth it"
Thank you.
Thank you very much.
Because, by golly, those things hadn't occured to me.
Here's what HAS occured to me though.
I'm stuck. I have time, money, my health, beautiful spring days, a wonderful daughter, a fantastic husband. I have a full house, in poker as well as literal terms. I am lucky. I am able to move around somewhat, as compared to my prior pregnancy, and I have, at my disposal, all things practical, a few things lavish, and myriad things unnecessary but comforting.
I get that I can't, I shouldn't, no one wants to hear me...complain.
But what also occurs to me is that life had become, was about to become easy. My pregnancy coincided with the beginning of preschool. I had two mornings off, for the first time in three years, and we had a cushion of cash that came from living in a small house, and NOT traveling for three years. This year we were planning a beach trip, local, or maybe a stay away, just we two. My weight was dropping,, we were starting to meet new "grown up" social friends, plans for Red Sox games, dinners, shows, movies together. I felt like I was rediscovering - if not actually discovering - the joys of married life. Sure our house is tiny, but we fixed the porches, and we were going to make do, and make do well.
And maybe it wouldn't suck so bad if I hadn't always delayed gratification. Someday. Someday I'll meet someone, someday I'll go to this game, have this vacation, have this drink, enjoy this life. But I didn't up until now. I worked - I grinded - through my 20s, and then my 30s. I stayed in long houred jobs and worse relationships, waiting for someday. And yes, I lived a virtuous - at least financially - life. Never wasting, never excessive - but finally, FINALLY, this was to be our time. We were finally going to get to be kids again. The "kids" we weren't.
And whoosh. Gone.
And not because I'm pregnant. Because pregnant people do things. Pregnant people vacation, go to games, out to dinner, garde, they do to the gym. Hell, pregnant people run marathons.
Just not THIS pregnant person.
Because I can't.
I am Not Allowed to.
Something that I can't get no satisfaction for expressing.
It's not "I feel like shit because I hurt"
which I do.
It's "I feel like shit because I hurt but also because a full calendar year of my life is passing, a year I can never get back, a year I delayed forever, that I'm not getting any younger and that I am crippled, hobbled, incapacitated. That I cannot walk through a mall, through a park, to the beach - without worrying what I can and cannot stop to pick up. That this looming threat is over me, while my pent up wishes are under me and the middle ground is to wait. And be jealous, and sad, of the world moving around me. That the park poses threats, that driving to visit a friend is out of the question and that my life is measured in weekly doctors appointments."
Do I know it's not cancer? Yes, thank you.
Do I realize I'm crying over a Red Sox game and a missed opportunity to host a yardsale? Yes, I do.
But do YOU realize that the day I'm allowed a reprieve from this shackle is the day that two people will be entrusted to my care and that I feel like I will never have my chance? Do you realize that I finally tasted freedom, the breeze of a seawind on my face and instead, for my troubles, I'll have 40 plus pounds to shake, a year of muscle mass to rebuild and two infants added to my lot. That another two years will be given in service to this?
Yes it was our choice and yes, it will...eventually... be the right one.
But I have a tough time sitting in a Courtyard Mariott off an industrial park while my husband goes to work, and I read a book, because my house is being painted, I can't go home, and there's no place I can "walk" to that I'm allowed to.
Am I the poor little rich girl here, yes. You betcha.
Do other people have real issues - money woes, hardships, illness, strife. Failed marriages, failed friendships, yes. And btw, I have those things too. But the point is this. What if you worked hard, really REALLY hard. What if you did sacrifice, pay the piper, pay your dues. What if you said no to a thousand chocolate cakes and two thousand vacations, and what if one day, it all became worth it. That you were standing on the pinacle, raising your arm to catch the golden ring, the holy grail, the jeweled chalice. What if it was all right there in front of you, your dream, your lifes work. What if you were RIGHT THERE, and suddenly, someone came behind you and kicked you down a hill. Not a huge hill, not one you hadn't climbed, but a hill nonethe less, a hill so shallow that you could still see the clouds, you could still see the flag waving - and then that someone, that ass kicker, said to you - you have to wait a year before you can climb again. You can see it, you can taste it, you are capable of reaching it.. but if you take one false step between now and then, you will have everything taken away from you.
That, my friend, is depressing.
And miserable.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
by Henry Sambrooke Leigh
In form and feature, face and limb,
I grew so like my brother,
That folks got taking me for him,
And each for one another.
It puzzled all our kith and kin,
It reached a fearful pitch;
For one of us was born a twin,
Yet not a soul knew which.
One day, to make the matter worse,
Before our names were fixed,
As we were being washed by nurse,
We got completely mixed;
And thus, you see, by fate's decree,
Or rather nurse's whim,
My brother John got christened me,
And I got christened him.
This fatal likeness even dogged
My footsteps when at school,
And I was always getting flogged,
For John turned out a fool.
I put this question, fruitlessly,
To everyone I knew,
"What would you do, if you were me,
To prove that you were you?"
Our close resemblance turned the tide
Of my domestic life,
For somehow, my intended bride
Became my brother's wife.
In fact, year after year the same
Absurd mistakes went on,
And when I died, the neighbors came
And buried brother John.
I grew so like my brother,
That folks got taking me for him,
And each for one another.
It puzzled all our kith and kin,
It reached a fearful pitch;
For one of us was born a twin,
Yet not a soul knew which.
One day, to make the matter worse,
Before our names were fixed,
As we were being washed by nurse,
We got completely mixed;
And thus, you see, by fate's decree,
Or rather nurse's whim,
My brother John got christened me,
And I got christened him.
This fatal likeness even dogged
My footsteps when at school,
And I was always getting flogged,
For John turned out a fool.
I put this question, fruitlessly,
To everyone I knew,
"What would you do, if you were me,
To prove that you were you?"
Our close resemblance turned the tide
Of my domestic life,
For somehow, my intended bride
Became my brother's wife.
In fact, year after year the same
Absurd mistakes went on,
And when I died, the neighbors came
And buried brother John.
Monday, April 5, 2010
That's Amore
My husband and I have a joke. It's long running and not exact, or put into words, but what it equates to, roughly, is that I am his Italian peasant wife.
I used to take the train home from the city at night, after work. As late as 10:50, more often then not 9:20. I walked places, I went out after dark. Taking nap until 7 on weekends, leaving the house at 9, wishing bars were open past 12:30. I went places in the dark. To people's house, for after parties. To see the beach. To get pizza. The day started at the same time, it just ended later.
And then pre-Ellie, it changed. Mostly because of my pregnancy, but some of it was life choices. But because of the complications, it became...if not easier, more routine to have us do things together. Go to the store. Go to the library. I started to weigh if I really needed things, or if they could wait until Doug got home. I stopped going out at night. "Why bother? I can always go tomorrow." Like a retiree.
Black is a big color in womans fashion. Black roll down skirts from Old Navy, black t shirts. Everything comes in black. Cardigans, sweaters, flipflops. Black goes with a lot. So when pregnant, I wore black a lot. And I'd be too lazy to put on shoes.
Black clothes, short, brunette, flipflops in lieu of scuffs, I'd walk out of the house and sit in the passenger seat while he drove us on errands. For all the world like Aunt Donata in her housedress. Because I couldn't, shouldn't walk - he got in and out of the car while I sat and waited. Then we came home together.
His Italian peasant wife.
Barefoot all day today, at home.
I hired someone to watch Ellie, then got cute and pushed out the couch and loveseat in frustration in an attempt to find a tin teacup. The rug buckled, shifted, I lifted the couch, my lower abdomin twinged and I pretended I didn't feel it. 15 minutes later, as panic set in, I went up to bed to lie still for 2 hours.
In about 47 minutes my caretaker will be home with Ellie. After getting up at 2, I made sausage soup, did the laundry, and cleaned the counters. It's 4 now. I did not, I am not, doing the right things.
At 4:04 by my clock, I contemplate how to kill the time from 5 to 6:30 when Ellie is home, but before her dad. We could paint, we could color, I could read. I want to go to Target to do a return... so her running around will be contained, so her little bundle of energy self won't want to be outside, where I can't play, can't chase, can't catch.
I lifted a couch and wasted hours when the time I should be spending exerting myself is with her.
I continue to make the wrong choices, I suppose I am waiting to be warned, threatened, coerced,.. as if wasn't already. As if I don't know better.
Just one more day I keep thinking.
One more day of moving and tomorrow I'll sit the whole day I promise myself. Tomorrow I'll rest.
I wish that my husband would come home.
I used to take the train home from the city at night, after work. As late as 10:50, more often then not 9:20. I walked places, I went out after dark. Taking nap until 7 on weekends, leaving the house at 9, wishing bars were open past 12:30. I went places in the dark. To people's house, for after parties. To see the beach. To get pizza. The day started at the same time, it just ended later.
And then pre-Ellie, it changed. Mostly because of my pregnancy, but some of it was life choices. But because of the complications, it became...if not easier, more routine to have us do things together. Go to the store. Go to the library. I started to weigh if I really needed things, or if they could wait until Doug got home. I stopped going out at night. "Why bother? I can always go tomorrow." Like a retiree.
Black is a big color in womans fashion. Black roll down skirts from Old Navy, black t shirts. Everything comes in black. Cardigans, sweaters, flipflops. Black goes with a lot. So when pregnant, I wore black a lot. And I'd be too lazy to put on shoes.
Black clothes, short, brunette, flipflops in lieu of scuffs, I'd walk out of the house and sit in the passenger seat while he drove us on errands. For all the world like Aunt Donata in her housedress. Because I couldn't, shouldn't walk - he got in and out of the car while I sat and waited. Then we came home together.
His Italian peasant wife.
Barefoot all day today, at home.
I hired someone to watch Ellie, then got cute and pushed out the couch and loveseat in frustration in an attempt to find a tin teacup. The rug buckled, shifted, I lifted the couch, my lower abdomin twinged and I pretended I didn't feel it. 15 minutes later, as panic set in, I went up to bed to lie still for 2 hours.
In about 47 minutes my caretaker will be home with Ellie. After getting up at 2, I made sausage soup, did the laundry, and cleaned the counters. It's 4 now. I did not, I am not, doing the right things.
At 4:04 by my clock, I contemplate how to kill the time from 5 to 6:30 when Ellie is home, but before her dad. We could paint, we could color, I could read. I want to go to Target to do a return... so her running around will be contained, so her little bundle of energy self won't want to be outside, where I can't play, can't chase, can't catch.
I lifted a couch and wasted hours when the time I should be spending exerting myself is with her.
I continue to make the wrong choices, I suppose I am waiting to be warned, threatened, coerced,.. as if wasn't already. As if I don't know better.
Just one more day I keep thinking.
One more day of moving and tomorrow I'll sit the whole day I promise myself. Tomorrow I'll rest.
I wish that my husband would come home.
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