Thursday, April 12, 2007
I'm in LA this week...
Work sent me to LA to cover for another worker. Anyone have any suggestions on what and where to go?
Monday, April 09, 2007
Yankees vs Red Sox
Imagine if you will, that you are a huge, D.ere.k J.ete.r loving, stripe-wearing Yankees fan. And more than that you are a New Yorker. An American. But you are in a country far, far away from New York City. And that you have been there for a very long time. Years and years in fact.
And then one day, you see a restaurant open up just a few miles from you. An American style restaurant, with all the foods and customs and mores that you grew up with. You get happy. You get excited. Until you find out...
It's Red Sox-themed.
The same thing happened to my Mother-in-Law, with the changes in the story that she's not from the United States, she's from somewhere else (legally emigrating more that 5 decades back, thanks for asking). And that it's not, obviously, a Red Sox-themed restaurant. But everything else is the same, and for ease of understanding, I'm going to be referring to "Yankees" and "Red Sox."
Entiendamos?
So yeah, there's this Red Sox themed restaurant. And at first, we would drive by it, and Mama would spit at the sight of it. Which changed (thank you God) to her telling us the story about how her father would spit every time someone would say the name "Red Sox." And sometimes she would sing the fight song from the rival team's fight song.
Then, one night, we're scrounging for a place to have dinner/get take out from. H is having a craving for food "like his Mother used to make." And I suggest the Red Sox Diner, laughing as I say it. A strange look comes across H's face, and off he is to enemy territory.
H loves it. And Mama loves it, although we don't mention where it came from. I breathe a sigh of relief that we got away with it.
Next month, we're back.
This time, I accompany H. I, who root for neither the Red Sox not the Yankees (let's go Mets!) feel as though, on some level, I am doing something bad. This is how vehemently and eloquently Mama has conveyed her dislike for the Yankees.
Much to my surprise, God does not strike us down when we walk through the door of Red Sox Restaurant. And the people are nice and the place is far more authentic than I thought. And there's a little, little Yankees logo up in the corner. H says, "Mama would love this!" I'm not so sure, but my husband is always right. Mama loves the leftovers and holds her spit when we tell her where it came from.
So a few days ago, we all decide to go there for dinner. (I know -- we eat out far too much for people so broke). And Mama decides to wear her Yankees T-Shirt. To the Red Sox Diner.
At first we were a little concerned -- this is a serious rivalry in Mama's home country. But we decide to go for it. (Of course, being a chicken, *I* put on the Red Sox shirt that H bought only to poke at his mother).
H leaves us outside the restaurant to go find parking. We ask for a table for three and the hostess leads us right to one.
Once at the table, Mama looks at the hostess. "Do you know what I have on?," Mama asks and opens her coat (like a flasher) to show off the Yankee T-Shirt.
The hostess erupts in a stream of Spanish to quick for me to follow. She calls over to another table. Mama flashes them the Yankees shirt and they cheer. Another table boos. One of the bartenders comes over to shake her hand and compliment her on her "fine breeding" and "great taste." Mama (the woman who cannot walk a straight line without a cane or walker) begins to dance around, randomly opening her coat and flashing people the Yankees T-shirt. I chase after her, get the coat off and her in a seat about a minute before H comes in.
"Did anyone notice the shirt?" H asks.
Huh.
We have a nice, uneventful dinner. I practice my Spanish and all goes well. H pays the check and goes running out to get the car, leaving his mother and I to (slowly) put on our coats and make our way to the door.
As Mama passes a table, one of the men growl "You are in the wrong place!" His manner of delivery makes me a little nervous, but Mama laughs at him and flashes her shirt. An entire table near the front (near the bar) start howling and booing at Mama. She flashes the shirt and blows them kisses.
Once we're (safely) outside, Mama can't stop laughing. And I join her. And we're laughing and laughing and laughing. H pulls up and we're still laughing. And I tell him the story (her entrance, her exit, and everything in between) and H starts laughing. Mama is howling, I am giggling.
And I realize, I can't remember feeling this good in forever.
And I realize, I haven't felt good in so long, it feels WRONG to feel this good.
And I make the decision to keep laughing. Dammit.
And then one day, you see a restaurant open up just a few miles from you. An American style restaurant, with all the foods and customs and mores that you grew up with. You get happy. You get excited. Until you find out...
It's Red Sox-themed.
The same thing happened to my Mother-in-Law, with the changes in the story that she's not from the United States, she's from somewhere else (legally emigrating more that 5 decades back, thanks for asking). And that it's not, obviously, a Red Sox-themed restaurant. But everything else is the same, and for ease of understanding, I'm going to be referring to "Yankees" and "Red Sox."
Entiendamos?
So yeah, there's this Red Sox themed restaurant. And at first, we would drive by it, and Mama would spit at the sight of it. Which changed (thank you God) to her telling us the story about how her father would spit every time someone would say the name "Red Sox." And sometimes she would sing the fight song from the rival team's fight song.
Then, one night, we're scrounging for a place to have dinner/get take out from. H is having a craving for food "like his Mother used to make." And I suggest the Red Sox Diner, laughing as I say it. A strange look comes across H's face, and off he is to enemy territory.
H loves it. And Mama loves it, although we don't mention where it came from. I breathe a sigh of relief that we got away with it.
Next month, we're back.
This time, I accompany H. I, who root for neither the Red Sox not the Yankees (let's go Mets!) feel as though, on some level, I am doing something bad. This is how vehemently and eloquently Mama has conveyed her dislike for the Yankees.
Much to my surprise, God does not strike us down when we walk through the door of Red Sox Restaurant. And the people are nice and the place is far more authentic than I thought. And there's a little, little Yankees logo up in the corner. H says, "Mama would love this!" I'm not so sure, but my husband is always right. Mama loves the leftovers and holds her spit when we tell her where it came from.
So a few days ago, we all decide to go there for dinner. (I know -- we eat out far too much for people so broke). And Mama decides to wear her Yankees T-Shirt. To the Red Sox Diner.
At first we were a little concerned -- this is a serious rivalry in Mama's home country. But we decide to go for it. (Of course, being a chicken, *I* put on the Red Sox shirt that H bought only to poke at his mother).
H leaves us outside the restaurant to go find parking. We ask for a table for three and the hostess leads us right to one.
Once at the table, Mama looks at the hostess. "Do you know what I have on?," Mama asks and opens her coat (like a flasher) to show off the Yankee T-Shirt.
The hostess erupts in a stream of Spanish to quick for me to follow. She calls over to another table. Mama flashes them the Yankees shirt and they cheer. Another table boos. One of the bartenders comes over to shake her hand and compliment her on her "fine breeding" and "great taste." Mama (the woman who cannot walk a straight line without a cane or walker) begins to dance around, randomly opening her coat and flashing people the Yankees T-shirt. I chase after her, get the coat off and her in a seat about a minute before H comes in.
"Did anyone notice the shirt?" H asks.
Huh.
We have a nice, uneventful dinner. I practice my Spanish and all goes well. H pays the check and goes running out to get the car, leaving his mother and I to (slowly) put on our coats and make our way to the door.
As Mama passes a table, one of the men growl "You are in the wrong place!" His manner of delivery makes me a little nervous, but Mama laughs at him and flashes her shirt. An entire table near the front (near the bar) start howling and booing at Mama. She flashes the shirt and blows them kisses.
Once we're (safely) outside, Mama can't stop laughing. And I join her. And we're laughing and laughing and laughing. H pulls up and we're still laughing. And I tell him the story (her entrance, her exit, and everything in between) and H starts laughing. Mama is howling, I am giggling.
And I realize, I can't remember feeling this good in forever.
And I realize, I haven't felt good in so long, it feels WRONG to feel this good.
And I make the decision to keep laughing. Dammit.
The Eyes Have It
Mama's eyes turned red a few weeks ago. (Her ultimate diagnosis: Blepharitis). Her (social model) daycare couldn't handle it; sent her home saying they were not going to let her back until she was declared "non-contagious."
I called her doctor, who said "go to an opthamologist." Mama hasn't seen an opthamologist for two decades, so I was at a loss to find one. QUICKLY.
Luckily, the last time Mama had a medical crisis, I was at work, and my well-organized hypochondriac co-worker supplied me with a list of specialized emergency rooms. So I packed up Mama and took her to the N.e.w Y.or.k E.y.e and E.a.r I.nfirmar.y one fine Monday morning.
The minute we walk in, she says, "are we going to see Dr. B?" I say no and smile and explain that, um, we're going to see an associate of Dr. B. Yeah, that's it. "No," says Mama, stamping her foot like a spoiled child, "Dr. B is my eye doctor."
We (meaning I) fill out forms as we (meaning her) wait impatiently for our turn. (They are mind-boggling quick after-hours, but we had come for a regular walk-in appointment. So we waited about 90 minutes).
At one point, Mama was so agitated I put my I.p.o.d headphones on her and cranked the classical music. It made her SO HAPPY that she began to dance. And sing. LOUDLY. To the orchestral, no-vocals included classical music. (Mama sings SO BADLY that a co-worker of mine who heard her once wanted to record her JUST for the comedy of it...)
We were the talk of the waiting room...
I had placed the I.p.o.d in Mama's hand (and wrapped her fingers around it), because I didn't want it to go flying. At one point, Mama screams "Nica, you have to hear this!" and crams the I.p.o.d. next to my ear. As if it was a transistor radio. I (politely) decline and she shoves it next to her own ear. And continues to dance. And sing. Loudly (and off-key).
Within five minute of the start of Mama's performance, we're whisked to a consultation room. (Coincidence? I think not). A nurse does the preliminary examination, and Mama starts talking about Dr. B. The nurse looks at her (then me) strangely. She asks Mama to repeat the name and Mama repeats it. "I'm sorry," says the nurse. "Dr. B died some time ago." She walks out and Mama and I quietly wait for the doctor.
Mama is sad, and spends the next few moments reminiscing. Dr. B's wife was named A. He had two sons. He was a great man, and a nice man. She gets a little teary, which isn't a bad thing an opthamologist's office.
The Trainee Doc comes in to examine Mama. I recommend the NYEE highly, but the doctors that you see there are fresh out of school. I think I have shoes older than the Trainee Doc. And while Trainee is knowledgeable, she's thrown by the fact that Mama is a sad (and bad) patient. Mama will NOT sit still, Mama will not stick her chin in that thing that you're supposed to stick your chin in (anyone know the name). And the glaucoma test -- where you have to keep your eye open as they blow air in it? -- yeah. NOT happening.
Trainee Doc asks, then begs, then I ask, then beg. We ask in English, we beg in Spanish. (I've explained about the Alzheimer's). Trainee Doc gets frustrated, and says she's going to call her supervising doctor.
"I should send a card to the family," says Mama when Trainee's out of the room. "A sympathy card to Dr. B's family." I nod and plug her into the I.p.o.d, worried about how we can get Mama through the necessary tests.
In walks Dr. Trainee with her Supervisor.
The Supervisor is the son of Dr. B.
The Supervisor, the son of Dr. B. examined her 20+ years ago when he was just a trainee and remembers Mama.
And the Supervisor looks enough like his father that Mama calms down and gets through the exam. (they want us to come back fro some preventative laser surgery, but all should be well).
As we get in the cab home, Mama turns to me and says. "I told you that I was going to see Dr. B."
I ask you -- what are the freaking odds?
I called her doctor, who said "go to an opthamologist." Mama hasn't seen an opthamologist for two decades, so I was at a loss to find one. QUICKLY.
Luckily, the last time Mama had a medical crisis, I was at work, and my well-organized hypochondriac co-worker supplied me with a list of specialized emergency rooms. So I packed up Mama and took her to the N.e.w Y.or.k E.y.e and E.a.r I.nfirmar.y one fine Monday morning.
The minute we walk in, she says, "are we going to see Dr. B?" I say no and smile and explain that, um, we're going to see an associate of Dr. B. Yeah, that's it. "No," says Mama, stamping her foot like a spoiled child, "Dr. B is my eye doctor."
We (meaning I) fill out forms as we (meaning her) wait impatiently for our turn. (They are mind-boggling quick after-hours, but we had come for a regular walk-in appointment. So we waited about 90 minutes).
At one point, Mama was so agitated I put my I.p.o.d headphones on her and cranked the classical music. It made her SO HAPPY that she began to dance. And sing. LOUDLY. To the orchestral, no-vocals included classical music. (Mama sings SO BADLY that a co-worker of mine who heard her once wanted to record her JUST for the comedy of it...)
We were the talk of the waiting room...
I had placed the I.p.o.d in Mama's hand (and wrapped her fingers around it), because I didn't want it to go flying. At one point, Mama screams "Nica, you have to hear this!" and crams the I.p.o.d. next to my ear. As if it was a transistor radio. I (politely) decline and she shoves it next to her own ear. And continues to dance. And sing. Loudly (and off-key).
Within five minute of the start of Mama's performance, we're whisked to a consultation room. (Coincidence? I think not). A nurse does the preliminary examination, and Mama starts talking about Dr. B. The nurse looks at her (then me) strangely. She asks Mama to repeat the name and Mama repeats it. "I'm sorry," says the nurse. "Dr. B died some time ago." She walks out and Mama and I quietly wait for the doctor.
Mama is sad, and spends the next few moments reminiscing. Dr. B's wife was named A. He had two sons. He was a great man, and a nice man. She gets a little teary, which isn't a bad thing an opthamologist's office.
The Trainee Doc comes in to examine Mama. I recommend the NYEE highly, but the doctors that you see there are fresh out of school. I think I have shoes older than the Trainee Doc. And while Trainee is knowledgeable, she's thrown by the fact that Mama is a sad (and bad) patient. Mama will NOT sit still, Mama will not stick her chin in that thing that you're supposed to stick your chin in (anyone know the name). And the glaucoma test -- where you have to keep your eye open as they blow air in it? -- yeah. NOT happening.
Trainee Doc asks, then begs, then I ask, then beg. We ask in English, we beg in Spanish. (I've explained about the Alzheimer's). Trainee Doc gets frustrated, and says she's going to call her supervising doctor.
"I should send a card to the family," says Mama when Trainee's out of the room. "A sympathy card to Dr. B's family." I nod and plug her into the I.p.o.d, worried about how we can get Mama through the necessary tests.
In walks Dr. Trainee with her Supervisor.
The Supervisor is the son of Dr. B.
The Supervisor, the son of Dr. B. examined her 20+ years ago when he was just a trainee and remembers Mama.
And the Supervisor looks enough like his father that Mama calms down and gets through the exam. (they want us to come back fro some preventative laser surgery, but all should be well).
As we get in the cab home, Mama turns to me and says. "I told you that I was going to see Dr. B."
I ask you -- what are the freaking odds?
Monday, March 26, 2007
This and that.
Am I crazy, or did bogger used to have a fun toolbar? That allowed you to insert links as, well, links? I don't seem to have that anymore. And the short cuts don't work...
Recent articles of interest to me from the New York Times...
MODERN LOVE; In the Grip of Nature's Own Form of Birth Control
Prevalence of Alzheimer’s Rises 10% in 5 Years
And I’m Not Your ‘Girl,’ Gramps
This I found amusing, mostly because I have used this agency and the Home Health Aides did not like to change a soiled bed, much less what they say they do in this article.
Promise to have a real post soon....
Recent articles of interest to me from the New York Times...
MODERN LOVE; In the Grip of Nature's Own Form of Birth Control
Prevalence of Alzheimer’s Rises 10% in 5 Years
And I’m Not Your ‘Girl,’ Gramps
This I found amusing, mostly because I have used this agency and the Home Health Aides did not like to change a soiled bed, much less what they say they do in this article.
Promise to have a real post soon....
Friday, March 09, 2007
Life Isn't Fair. But That's Okay.
Life isn't fair. But that's okay.
A friend of mine and I had a conversation a week or so back. Her life is going great, mine not so much, and I dunno. I think she was looking for the silver lining in my current IF cloud.
"Of course this will all work out for you," she says, "because you're taking care of Mama."
Which took me a minute to put together. And then I asked her explicitly, just to be sure, that I understood her.
And I did. By her logic, I'm going to get pregnant because if I deserve to get pregnant.
Except. Who decides that I freaking DESERVE.
Two weeks ago, when Mama was screaming at me that I was the cause of all things wrong with both her and her life, I yelled back.
Mama never knew me before her dementia, before the Alzheimer's. So any memory she has of being healthy, happy and strong... doesn't include me. So every so often, her logic decides that I am responsible and she shrieks at me to get out. She screams and hits and hits and screams and demands that I get out, that I leave, that her son will be better off without me, that she will be better off without me, that I am fat, that I am ugly, that I am stupid, that she curses me, that I am cursed, that she hates me, that I am evil and deserve to die. And when she hits, she always (always) strikes me in the abdomen and occasionally adds "I kill your baby! I kill your baby!"
Sometimes (rarely) it rolls off my back. But this last time, I screamed back, loud and vicious. After a minute or two of howling, (mine and hers), I sat down quietly. While I can still see Mama (and she me), I cease to interact with her. I pray a little, focus on something (anything) else, and get my calm back. (I think of it as giving myself a time out.) And after a moment of two of quiet, she starts to talk to me. Can she do anything for me, she asks. Can she make me a sandwich? Get me a glass of water? Can she make me a cup of tea?
H called me at that moment, and I collapsed into tears. I crumpled, I whined, I demanded that he make it all better. And he tried, but he couldn't. So we fought on the phone and made up on a second call.
Mama was having problems finding her crayons and when I found them, she said "Thank you Nica. You bring such good things to my life. I love you." And she hugged me and kissed me and happily toddled off to color.
People routinely say something trite. How good H and I are to take Mama in, how good we are with her. Like I would instantly "deserve" to have kids, be pregnant.
But. If we don't have kids, is it because we don't deserve to? Did Mama deserve to have dementia? Does the woman with Alzheimer's deserve to be yelled at for what she cannot control? For how her brain does (and doesn't) function? Does my family deserve to be without health insurance? Does H deserve to have his wife scream at him at work? Did I deserve to have a chemical pregnancy?
Life isn't fair. Mostly, I'm thinking, because life is filled with humans. And humans are frail creatures with frailer bodies. And sometimes they fail -- both the human and the bodies -- despite the best of efforts and the best of intentions. And what's fair for me may not be fair for you, or for H, or for Mama. And if I forgive them -- Mama and H and all the other humans (including me) in my life -- and they forgive me for my frailty, for what makes my life (and their lives) unfair... and if I'm going to continue to try (and to risk failing or really screwing up)... then I have to make my peace with life being unfair.
Life isn't fair. But that's okay.
Feel free to disagree with me. It took me a few weeks to get to here...
A friend of mine and I had a conversation a week or so back. Her life is going great, mine not so much, and I dunno. I think she was looking for the silver lining in my current IF cloud.
"Of course this will all work out for you," she says, "because you're taking care of Mama."
Which took me a minute to put together. And then I asked her explicitly, just to be sure, that I understood her.
And I did. By her logic, I'm going to get pregnant because if I deserve to get pregnant.
Except. Who decides that I freaking DESERVE.
Two weeks ago, when Mama was screaming at me that I was the cause of all things wrong with both her and her life, I yelled back.
Mama never knew me before her dementia, before the Alzheimer's. So any memory she has of being healthy, happy and strong... doesn't include me. So every so often, her logic decides that I am responsible and she shrieks at me to get out. She screams and hits and hits and screams and demands that I get out, that I leave, that her son will be better off without me, that she will be better off without me, that I am fat, that I am ugly, that I am stupid, that she curses me, that I am cursed, that she hates me, that I am evil and deserve to die. And when she hits, she always (always) strikes me in the abdomen and occasionally adds "I kill your baby! I kill your baby!"
Sometimes (rarely) it rolls off my back. But this last time, I screamed back, loud and vicious. After a minute or two of howling, (mine and hers), I sat down quietly. While I can still see Mama (and she me), I cease to interact with her. I pray a little, focus on something (anything) else, and get my calm back. (I think of it as giving myself a time out.) And after a moment of two of quiet, she starts to talk to me. Can she do anything for me, she asks. Can she make me a sandwich? Get me a glass of water? Can she make me a cup of tea?
H called me at that moment, and I collapsed into tears. I crumpled, I whined, I demanded that he make it all better. And he tried, but he couldn't. So we fought on the phone and made up on a second call.
Mama was having problems finding her crayons and when I found them, she said "Thank you Nica. You bring such good things to my life. I love you." And she hugged me and kissed me and happily toddled off to color.
People routinely say something trite. How good H and I are to take Mama in, how good we are with her. Like I would instantly "deserve" to have kids, be pregnant.
But. If we don't have kids, is it because we don't deserve to? Did Mama deserve to have dementia? Does the woman with Alzheimer's deserve to be yelled at for what she cannot control? For how her brain does (and doesn't) function? Does my family deserve to be without health insurance? Does H deserve to have his wife scream at him at work? Did I deserve to have a chemical pregnancy?
Life isn't fair. Mostly, I'm thinking, because life is filled with humans. And humans are frail creatures with frailer bodies. And sometimes they fail -- both the human and the bodies -- despite the best of efforts and the best of intentions. And what's fair for me may not be fair for you, or for H, or for Mama. And if I forgive them -- Mama and H and all the other humans (including me) in my life -- and they forgive me for my frailty, for what makes my life (and their lives) unfair... and if I'm going to continue to try (and to risk failing or really screwing up)... then I have to make my peace with life being unfair.
Life isn't fair. But that's okay.
Feel free to disagree with me. It took me a few weeks to get to here...
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
What is In Vitro Maturation?
See above. What is In Vitro Maturation and how is it different from IVF? Anyone know?
See, I do searches periodically for news articles about fertility. I keep hoping that there will be something... something. Preferably with the headline "HEY NICA -- THIS WILL GET YOU PREGNANT!!"
In Vitro Maturation popped up a while back, and though I have g.oogle.d it, I'll be darned it I understand it. Because if it works so well... why aren't more folks using it? If anyone has a clue, feel free to share with the rest of the class...
And speaking of being confused by the news... Being overweight is bad for fertility, trans-fats are bad for fertility, but a diet high in fat is good for fertility.
My little head is hurting...
See, I do searches periodically for news articles about fertility. I keep hoping that there will be something... something. Preferably with the headline "HEY NICA -- THIS WILL GET YOU PREGNANT!!"
In Vitro Maturation popped up a while back, and though I have g.oogle.d it, I'll be darned it I understand it. Because if it works so well... why aren't more folks using it? If anyone has a clue, feel free to share with the rest of the class...
And speaking of being confused by the news... Being overweight is bad for fertility, trans-fats are bad for fertility, but a diet high in fat is good for fertility.
My little head is hurting...
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Yesterday
Yesterday, I'm waiting in front of the building. It was shortly after 8:00AM, raining like hell, cold enough to be miserable (but not enough to make it snow). I'm waiting with Mama for the bus that takes her to daycare. And Mama, being Mama, is wandering around. I'm chasing after her, making sure that she's covered by the umbrella, and while she doesn't move fast, she has this superhuman ability to make sure that she's far enough away that I am constantly drenched. And because I am REALLY SMART I am wearing pink fluffy bunny slippers that are sopping and freezing and slipping off my feet and getting filthier by the minute.
And then the morning got bad.
Isa, Mama's former Home Care Attendant, comes walking by, on her way to the subway. She waves and runs up to Mama, chirping a greeting and (thank you Jesus) causing Mama to stop in her tracks. Isa then turns to me and says NICA, WHERE'S THE BABY? WHY YOU NO PREGNANT YET?
Yeah. We're Latin. Have I mentioned?
I was raised in the Midwest, by parents trying (and succeeding) to be middle class. Polite (ish). Small family. You know the kind.
I move to NYC, I marry H, and I am pulled into a large (although now, all moved away) Latin family.
And WHERE IS THE BABY is the way we get greeted. That, or WHY DON'T YOU HAVE KIDS (YET). Just after we were married, we'd respond we're trying!! with laughs and smiles. And then the smiles got thinner and the chuckles died away. And now while I am usually reeling from this hello, H (if he's with me) if giving whomever an abridged version of our attempts to procreate. Up to and including our maybe-chemical pregnancy. (My 2nd RE is convinced it was a real pregnancy, my OBGYN is not. Doc Fight!)
But H wasn't there, so I just stood there. In the rain, feet cold and hair sopping, I just stood there. And Isa continues, YOU'VE GAINED WEIGHT. I THOUGHT YOU WERE PREGNANT.
Yeah.
I wish I could be like H. I wish I could just tell people that we're trying, that it's hell, that it's hell. H actually told his boss that he needed a job that had good benefits because we were having fertility problems and needed great medical coverage. (H is currently working freelance). I wish I could make similar requests to my boss.
But I don't.
And then the morning got bad.
Isa, Mama's former Home Care Attendant, comes walking by, on her way to the subway. She waves and runs up to Mama, chirping a greeting and (thank you Jesus) causing Mama to stop in her tracks. Isa then turns to me and says NICA, WHERE'S THE BABY? WHY YOU NO PREGNANT YET?
Yeah. We're Latin. Have I mentioned?
I was raised in the Midwest, by parents trying (and succeeding) to be middle class. Polite (ish). Small family. You know the kind.
I move to NYC, I marry H, and I am pulled into a large (although now, all moved away) Latin family.
And WHERE IS THE BABY is the way we get greeted. That, or WHY DON'T YOU HAVE KIDS (YET). Just after we were married, we'd respond we're trying!! with laughs and smiles. And then the smiles got thinner and the chuckles died away. And now while I am usually reeling from this hello, H (if he's with me) if giving whomever an abridged version of our attempts to procreate. Up to and including our maybe-chemical pregnancy. (My 2nd RE is convinced it was a real pregnancy, my OBGYN is not. Doc Fight!)
But H wasn't there, so I just stood there. In the rain, feet cold and hair sopping, I just stood there. And Isa continues, YOU'VE GAINED WEIGHT. I THOUGHT YOU WERE PREGNANT.
Yeah.
I wish I could be like H. I wish I could just tell people that we're trying, that it's hell, that it's hell. H actually told his boss that he needed a job that had good benefits because we were having fertility problems and needed great medical coverage. (H is currently working freelance). I wish I could make similar requests to my boss.
But I don't.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Catching Up
Hi there. I haven't been here for a while. And not only have I NOT been posting, I haven't been reading other blogs. I haven't been logging on. I haven't been turning on the computer. You name it, I haven't been doing it.
What have I been doing? Working, mostly. Listening to my i.P.o.d. too much. Swinging from self-doubt to self-pity to selfishness. The usual.
I'm going to read a bit, and then I hope to have an uplifting yet vitriolic post on the morrow.
Cheers.
What have I been doing? Working, mostly. Listening to my i.P.o.d. too much. Swinging from self-doubt to self-pity to selfishness. The usual.
I'm going to read a bit, and then I hope to have an uplifting yet vitriolic post on the morrow.
Cheers.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
The Search For Insurance
So H has been trying to get this business thing off the ground. And I support him. Really. I just really want him to get a JOB right now.
Neither H nor I has what you'd call a REAL job right now. American businesses have figured out that, in many situations, it's cheaper for them to have 'contractors' or 'temps' work for them. (I'm in my third year of 'temping.')
The thing that makes it doubly frustrating is that I'm not a true freelancer. If I was, I could take a lot more stuff off of my taxes. No, I'm an employee of some rinky-dink temp agency. I haven't set foot in the place in two years, and they still get a piece of my paycheck.
Without offering insurance.
Now, my employers have been really supportive of me. When I want to take time off, when I need to switch around my schedule, when I need to disappear for two hours to take care of Mama, they cope. And there's the fact that they are dangling the "hey we MIGHT hire you" carrot in front of me.
So H has decided if anyone is getting a new job, it's him. Not that he wants a job. He wants a business. But if he gets a business, he's not going to be able to insure himself. Or me. We can't get an insurance policy that covers IF, even if we do get it through a business.
We've been fighting about it, these past few weeks. Whose dreams come first? Mine? His? Ours?
In the end, I won. The ticking biological time bomb cannot be ignored.
Never easy, this
Monday, January 22, 2007
The Big Accomplishment Of The Day
The big accomplishment of the day is that I went walking this morning with my neighbor. All though this may not appear as any big deal, it's huge in the Sandwich world. Not only is it time that I spent on myself, but I had the chance to have a talk with someone.
Being a caregiver may not necessitate being isolated, but I'll be damned if H and I have figured out how to do it without getting isolated. There are almost no support groups that take in couples, and while we have had some support from friends... Yeah, well, we haven't had a lot of support from friends. (We've had some, but not the heavy duty "I will gladly sit for your MIL one evening a week" kind of help. Not the big-time impactful on our quality of life kind of help.)
Periodically, I take Mama out to a movie. I do this without H to give H the afternoon off. (He enjoys being completely alone). I usually do this on Sunday, so he can watch the football game. (I actually shoved him out the door on Saturday night to go play poker with friends. H not only copes with a crazy-Alzheimer's mother, but a not-always sane IF wife. He needs all the re-charging he can get. Although I do not like football, I am always sad when the season ends, because H gets so much out of it).
Taking my MIL out is... well, usually it's difficult. On her best day of the week, she's partially paralyzed, motor skill-challenged and in and out of reality. I cannot leave her in unfamiliar territory for more than a few minutes, and I can't have her walk too far. And she never moves quickly (no matter WHAT is going on). On her worst day, she's all this and CRANKY.
But occasionally... it's soul killing. Like the last time I took her out to lunch. Once the order was placed and we were just looking at each other... I realized how desperately lonely I was. How I wanted to talk to her (someone, anyone) about my hopes and fears for the future, about anything that was going on in my life. And I couldn't. So we talked about some pop star she's currently in love with, and her childhood on the farm, and whatever else mattered to her.
I haven't been able to keep ahold of a great deal of friends, and those that I have all have kids or some other huge all-important endeavour. (Context: I have a friend with a dying parent, another with HIV, another who's going back to school and a few others who have children). So they don't have buckets of free time, either. But. There's only so many times you can be half-way through a gut-wrenching telephone conversation only to be put on hold because "Rachel needs something right now." (I have more patience with the others). It's like, dammit, am I not worth fifteen minutes of your time? Huh?
Of course, I talk to my husband, but he's a BOY. (You know what I mean). Sometimes I want to talk to someone ELSE.
So, this morning I went walking with my neighbor. She'd asked me a few weeks (okay, MONTHS) ago if I wanted to do a daily morning walk. At the time, I was focused on how chaotic my morning is. Getting Mama and H up and out takes a bit of doing. But I began to realize that I had 30 minutes free. So I knocked on her door and said, "Um, are you still interested....?"
Halfway through the walk, as we were chatting, she brought up that she has Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. "Ah," I replied, "PCOS." (Not that I know what it is exactly, but having surfed the boards I know it's a common complaint). And we chatted about fertility issues the rest of the walk.
Thanks, God.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Friday Was My Birthday
I awoke Friday morning discovered three things: I had EWCM, I was forty, and Mama had forgotten where the bathroom was (so she defecated in her bed).
Certain things made me happier than others...
H cleaned the bed and I cleaned Mama and then the bathroom, and praised God, Jesus and R.eckit.t B.enckise.r for L.yso.l Wipes. Love them.
We packed Mama on her bus to daycare and H called in late for work. Ahem.
A hell of a morning, even in the Sandwich household.
That night, H took me to a fancy vegan restaurant. It was great. I got to dress up (contacts and make up, even). We saw an actor I recognized coming out on his way in, and our table was between a super-hip Middle Eastern couple (she kept saying she wasn't responsible for the break-up of the marriage of the fellow she was sleeping with) and a lesbian couple on their first date (the one closest to H was so stressed she could barely eat).
I love to eavesdrop on other diners. I'm horrible that way. But we had a great time at dinner. An old married couple from the 'burbs (by Manhattan standards) having an exotic outing in Greenwich Village.
How was your weekend?
Certain things made me happier than others...
H cleaned the bed and I cleaned Mama and then the bathroom, and praised God, Jesus and R.eckit.t B.enckise.r for L.yso.l Wipes. Love them.
We packed Mama on her bus to daycare and H called in late for work. Ahem.
A hell of a morning, even in the Sandwich household.
That night, H took me to a fancy vegan restaurant. It was great. I got to dress up (contacts and make up, even). We saw an actor I recognized coming out on his way in, and our table was between a super-hip Middle Eastern couple (she kept saying she wasn't responsible for the break-up of the marriage of the fellow she was sleeping with) and a lesbian couple on their first date (the one closest to H was so stressed she could barely eat).
I love to eavesdrop on other diners. I'm horrible that way. But we had a great time at dinner. An old married couple from the 'burbs (by Manhattan standards) having an exotic outing in Greenwich Village.
How was your weekend?
Thursday, January 18, 2007
And the Ward Goes To...
We didn't go. But not for any reasons you might think.
It turns out that H’s friend has beliefs that preclude non-family members from viewing the baby until the baby is a certain age. (Eight months, I think, but don’t quote me). These same beliefs prohibit them from receiving gifts (so no online registry), from taking photos the baby and from getting the baby formally named (although I think the naming happens sooner than the viewing, but again. Don't quote me).
So, uh, yeah. We didn’t go.
I've heard of traditions like this before (I have 2 co-workers who did the same) but I have to say, my first reaction was negative. And then I thought about it.
And then I remembered us. The minute we got a positive on our Beta test, H was calling everyone in sight telling them we were a go. I was slightly more restrained, but only slightly. (I started my online registry). And then when the pregnancy ended (most doctors agree it was a c.hemica.l p.regnanc.y, although the RE who did the implantation insists it wasn't) H had to call up -- or at least deal with -- all the folks he had told. Me, I only had to hit the DELETE button a few times (sobbing all the way).
Some folks start celebrating at 7 weeks, when they hear the heartbeat. But those of us who have been around the blogs know that that's not even a guarantee that all will be well. Heck, we IF'ers know that even giving birth is not an indication that it's all roses. Sadly, we now all know the tale of someone somewhere that it didn't work out for.
So eight months. Keeping the child indoors and under wraps for eight months. Protecting them fiercely, keeping them close, watching them like a hawk. And then at eight months, taking them to your place of worship, dedicating them to God and presenting them to the world.
And so when I thought about it, I liked the eight moth waiting period. Not that, necessarily, waiting to have your child photographed and out in public will have an impact on whether they survive. But that is (God forbid) something bad happens... it's a private thing. No phone calls to make. No registries to delete. No onesies I purchased in a moment of hope that I can't bear to throw out but hate having to keep.
The waiting makes sense to me.
(Not that I'll ever do it...)
It turns out that H’s friend has beliefs that preclude non-family members from viewing the baby until the baby is a certain age. (Eight months, I think, but don’t quote me). These same beliefs prohibit them from receiving gifts (so no online registry), from taking photos the baby and from getting the baby formally named (although I think the naming happens sooner than the viewing, but again. Don't quote me).
So, uh, yeah. We didn’t go.
I've heard of traditions like this before (I have 2 co-workers who did the same) but I have to say, my first reaction was negative. And then I thought about it.
And then I remembered us. The minute we got a positive on our Beta test, H was calling everyone in sight telling them we were a go. I was slightly more restrained, but only slightly. (I started my online registry). And then when the pregnancy ended (most doctors agree it was a c.hemica.l p.regnanc.y, although the RE who did the implantation insists it wasn't) H had to call up -- or at least deal with -- all the folks he had told. Me, I only had to hit the DELETE button a few times (sobbing all the way).
Some folks start celebrating at 7 weeks, when they hear the heartbeat. But those of us who have been around the blogs know that that's not even a guarantee that all will be well. Heck, we IF'ers know that even giving birth is not an indication that it's all roses. Sadly, we now all know the tale of someone somewhere that it didn't work out for.
So eight months. Keeping the child indoors and under wraps for eight months. Protecting them fiercely, keeping them close, watching them like a hawk. And then at eight months, taking them to your place of worship, dedicating them to God and presenting them to the world.
And so when I thought about it, I liked the eight moth waiting period. Not that, necessarily, waiting to have your child photographed and out in public will have an impact on whether they survive. But that is (God forbid) something bad happens... it's a private thing. No phone calls to make. No registries to delete. No onesies I purchased in a moment of hope that I can't bear to throw out but hate having to keep.
The waiting makes sense to me.
(Not that I'll ever do it...)
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Okay, Here's the Deal
I used to post mostly from work. And my work regularly bans access to chat rooms, e-mail and BBS's just found out about blogs. Or, at least, just got around to banning them. So anything from "blogger.com" I can't read.
Ironically, while I can't get in to post, nor to comment, nor to see other people's comments, I can still see the main posts. So I have become Queen of the Lurking. (It's frustrating to be the Queen).
Anyway, I now have to post from home, which will be difficult. Living with a doubly-incontinent victim of Alzheimer's means never having to say I Have No Housework. Because there is always, always something that needs to be washed, tidied, laundered, or policed. (Like this morning. I unloaded and loaded the dishwasher, wiped down the countertops and cleaned up after Mam's decision to make breakfast. You never knew how many places jelly could get). And of course, H likes when I have a conversation with him. (Go figure).
This should be interesting...
PS -- I'm not upset at my work for the lack of access. It's well within their rights and honestly, it's prolly for the best.
Ironically, while I can't get in to post, nor to comment, nor to see other people's comments, I can still see the main posts. So I have become Queen of the Lurking. (It's frustrating to be the Queen).
Anyway, I now have to post from home, which will be difficult. Living with a doubly-incontinent victim of Alzheimer's means never having to say I Have No Housework. Because there is always, always something that needs to be washed, tidied, laundered, or policed. (Like this morning. I unloaded and loaded the dishwasher, wiped down the countertops and cleaned up after Mam's decision to make breakfast. You never knew how many places jelly could get). And of course, H likes when I have a conversation with him. (Go figure).
This should be interesting...
PS -- I'm not upset at my work for the lack of access. It's well within their rights and honestly, it's prolly for the best.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
We Are Experiencing Technical Difficulties
I have less internet access than I used to, so it's going to take me a bit longer to post.
Please be patient.
Please be patient.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Husband Says: Let's Go To The Maternity Ward!
Wife answers:
Are you freakin' crazy?
Husband replies:
It'll be good. Baby vibes. They're good for you.
Wife says:
Are you freakin' crazy?
Husband says:
She's a really nice co-worker, and I'd love for all of us (her, me, my husband and her husband) to become friends.
Wife says:
We'll go Friday.
But you're freakin' crazy.
What do you think? H thinks it's a GOOD idea to go visit his co-worker in the hospital. Now, I am (trying) to be Little Ms. Positive, (see any damn previous post) but I'm thinking that for me to visit a maternity ward... well, I'm thinking we'd be better served visiting the psych ward.
Hey, it's one thing if I knew her... But I don't. H hasn't even mentioned her (I don't even know her name). And to meet her there, in the hospital...
What you think?
Are you freakin' crazy?
Husband replies:
It'll be good. Baby vibes. They're good for you.
Wife says:
Are you freakin' crazy?
Husband says:
She's a really nice co-worker, and I'd love for all of us (her, me, my husband and her husband) to become friends.
Wife says:
We'll go Friday.
But you're freakin' crazy.
What do you think? H thinks it's a GOOD idea to go visit his co-worker in the hospital. Now, I am (trying) to be Little Ms. Positive, (see any damn previous post) but I'm thinking that for me to visit a maternity ward... well, I'm thinking we'd be better served visiting the psych ward.
Hey, it's one thing if I knew her... But I don't. H hasn't even mentioned her (I don't even know her name). And to meet her there, in the hospital...
What you think?
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
It's That Time...
We hate periods around here, don't we?
Exclamation points, also known as the positive lines on tests we like (understanding or course, that exclamations are both for joy and fear). We (or at least I) live for weeks with the question mark, and the vague and hopeless hope that accompanies it (the hopeless hope that whispers that even though H's sperm count is so low, that maybe one of the swimmers was an overachiever and we'll have a small miracle).
But we (or at least I) don't like period. Period.
It's hard to see the period as beginning. Who decided it was Day 1? That never strikes me as right. Science schmience. The period is the end, not the beginning.
I know women who hate their period. As in HATE their period. They give it different names (some really, really funny names) and they treat it as if it is some kind of alien creature invading their body. Not only alien, but traitorous as well.
I so completely get that. For me, in addition what it means (no baby) I hate how it feels. No emotional "feels" either, but the physical sensation of it all. (I'm not going into details. You know what I'm talking about.) I hate the mess, I hate the embarrassment and even more the potential for embarrassment. Oh, Aunt Flo, how could you?
So when I tell you that I am trying to love my period... Yeah. I'm nuts.
It's like this: I have a lump on my butt. (Have I shared too much?) It's not cancerous, or dangerous, or even THAT noticeable. But it's there and you can see it (if you're looking for it) and I wish I could get it removed. And when I'm shoved in a subway with thousands of fellow New Yorkers, my mind starts to wander. About how I'd like to have the lump removed, and maybe some cosmetic surgery in the area wouldn't be bad. About how I'd like to lose weight, how I'd like to reduce my hips by several miles. About how not satisfied I am with my body that aches and creaks and ISN'T PREGNANT.
And then I start to hate my body.
Now, I am going to be a mother (someday). We will either conceive or adopt. And if we conceive, it will be with this body, my body. And I think I will have a better chance of conceiving if I don't HATE the vessel that brings me what the most in all the world. I think I have a better chance of getting pregnant if I don't hate my body. (Call me crazy).
And even if my body never brings me a child.. well, my adopted child will see what I bring to my body. And I don't want to teach my daughters that it's okay to hate yourself. (Even the lumpy, alien, traitorous parts).
So I'm trying to love my body, dimpled thighs and crampy period included. Isn't it great that my cycle is regular! Isn't it comforting that my flow is consistent!
(I know. It doesn't sound so convincing yet. But I'm working on it, and welcome to suggestions).
Exclamation points, also known as the positive lines on tests we like (understanding or course, that exclamations are both for joy and fear). We (or at least I) live for weeks with the question mark, and the vague and hopeless hope that accompanies it (the hopeless hope that whispers that even though H's sperm count is so low, that maybe one of the swimmers was an overachiever and we'll have a small miracle).
But we (or at least I) don't like period. Period.
It's hard to see the period as beginning. Who decided it was Day 1? That never strikes me as right. Science schmience. The period is the end, not the beginning.
I know women who hate their period. As in HATE their period. They give it different names (some really, really funny names) and they treat it as if it is some kind of alien creature invading their body. Not only alien, but traitorous as well.
I so completely get that. For me, in addition what it means (no baby) I hate how it feels. No emotional "feels" either, but the physical sensation of it all. (I'm not going into details. You know what I'm talking about.) I hate the mess, I hate the embarrassment and even more the potential for embarrassment. Oh, Aunt Flo, how could you?
So when I tell you that I am trying to love my period... Yeah. I'm nuts.
It's like this: I have a lump on my butt. (Have I shared too much?) It's not cancerous, or dangerous, or even THAT noticeable. But it's there and you can see it (if you're looking for it) and I wish I could get it removed. And when I'm shoved in a subway with thousands of fellow New Yorkers, my mind starts to wander. About how I'd like to have the lump removed, and maybe some cosmetic surgery in the area wouldn't be bad. About how I'd like to lose weight, how I'd like to reduce my hips by several miles. About how not satisfied I am with my body that aches and creaks and ISN'T PREGNANT.
And then I start to hate my body.
Now, I am going to be a mother (someday). We will either conceive or adopt. And if we conceive, it will be with this body, my body. And I think I will have a better chance of conceiving if I don't HATE the vessel that brings me what the most in all the world. I think I have a better chance of getting pregnant if I don't hate my body. (Call me crazy).
And even if my body never brings me a child.. well, my adopted child will see what I bring to my body. And I don't want to teach my daughters that it's okay to hate yourself. (Even the lumpy, alien, traitorous parts).
So I'm trying to love my body, dimpled thighs and crampy period included. Isn't it great that my cycle is regular! Isn't it comforting that my flow is consistent!
(I know. It doesn't sound so convincing yet. But I'm working on it, and welcome to suggestions).
Thursday, January 04, 2007
The Other Side of the Sandwich
There was an article in the NY Times, "Elder-Care Costs Deplete Savings of a Generation."
The synopsis of the article is "Never before has old age lasted so long or been so costly, compromising the retirement of baby boomers." And while I am not a baby boomer, yeah. We spend about $700 to $1,200 taking care of my MIL. We've lost jobs because of taking care of her, because of the need to be with her and take way too much time off.
Medicaid thinks a person can live off of $600 a month. So we have to PAY BACK from her Social Security.
Yeah.
The synopsis of the article is "Never before has old age lasted so long or been so costly, compromising the retirement of baby boomers." And while I am not a baby boomer, yeah. We spend about $700 to $1,200 taking care of my MIL. We've lost jobs because of taking care of her, because of the need to be with her and take way too much time off.
Medicaid thinks a person can live off of $600 a month. So we have to PAY BACK from her Social Security.
Yeah.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
What I forgot yesterday...
2. Continue with the somewhat goofy but "good for me" things I do. (Continued)
I. No smoking or drinking of alcohol (which will be easy, because I never smoke and rarely drink)
see others from yesterday...
7. Start a Medical Binder for me, and one for my MIL
This is something I saw on one of those shows like R.ea.L S.impl.e or some such. One of those shows for the organized about how to be super-organized. I fall into neither category, but it is an idea whose time has come. Especially for me -- H got the results of his new SA, and couldn't remember if it was an improvement or not. We had to go digging through previous pieces of paper, and even then we weren't quite sure. So, I thought, Medical Binder. That may, we can put in notes, and try to be organized. (Emphasis on TRY).
And for my MIL -- H and I both take her to the doctor. Always, there is some card or piece of paper that the other one has when we're there. So having one central location (not to mention portable) makes sense...
What are your resolutions?
I. No smoking or drinking of alcohol (which will be easy, because I never smoke and rarely drink)
see others from yesterday...
7. Start a Medical Binder for me, and one for my MIL
This is something I saw on one of those shows like R.ea.L S.impl.e or some such. One of those shows for the organized about how to be super-organized. I fall into neither category, but it is an idea whose time has come. Especially for me -- H got the results of his new SA, and couldn't remember if it was an improvement or not. We had to go digging through previous pieces of paper, and even then we weren't quite sure. So, I thought, Medical Binder. That may, we can put in notes, and try to be organized. (Emphasis on TRY).
And for my MIL -- H and I both take her to the doctor. Always, there is some card or piece of paper that the other one has when we're there. So having one central location (not to mention portable) makes sense...
What are your resolutions?
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Resolved: This Year I Will...
1. Update my resume. And when the resume is updated, I will look for a job that will offer me health insurance.
(Even if it means re-typing the resume, as the computer it's stored on is on my husband's list of "things to be fixed". And even though it means calling a bunch of old employers and checking the exact dates of where I worked there, and when I was fired, which I dread dread dread).
2. Continue with the somewhat goofy but "good for me" things I do.
(Please note: by continue, for the most part, I mean "start again." )
A. I will sleep with a sleep mask, because light can impact your body's production of melatonin, and with my MIL, I don't always get to sleep at night.
B. I will take Synthroid, because I have hypothyroidism.
C. I will (try to) cut down on sugar. Sugar raises the insulin level, which inhibits the release of growth hormones, which in turn depresses the immune system, and in general antagonizes the endocrine system.
D. I will have (almost) no caffeine.
E. I will eat (almost) no dairy products. (But I am slightly lactose intolerant, and find that when I cut out dairy it makes my allergies much more easy to bear).
F. I will eat (almost) no meat, especially red meat. (Hard for my husband -- he's a carnivore.)
G. I will (try to) eat a diet rich in alkaline, specifically green vegetables.
H. I will take my vitamins, including folic acid, B6 , B12 and zinc.
3. I will laugh really hard at least once a day.
4. I will ask myself Powerful Questions.
5. I will blog at least once a week.
6. I will do something positive (per Bea) as often as I can. (I hope I can get to 50).
Did I forget anything?
(Even if it means re-typing the resume, as the computer it's stored on is on my husband's list of "things to be fixed". And even though it means calling a bunch of old employers and checking the exact dates of where I worked there, and when I was fired, which I dread dread dread).
2. Continue with the somewhat goofy but "good for me" things I do.
(Please note: by continue, for the most part, I mean "start again." )
A. I will sleep with a sleep mask, because light can impact your body's production of melatonin, and with my MIL, I don't always get to sleep at night.
B. I will take Synthroid, because I have hypothyroidism.
C. I will (try to) cut down on sugar. Sugar raises the insulin level, which inhibits the release of growth hormones, which in turn depresses the immune system, and in general antagonizes the endocrine system.
D. I will have (almost) no caffeine.
E. I will eat (almost) no dairy products. (But I am slightly lactose intolerant, and find that when I cut out dairy it makes my allergies much more easy to bear).
F. I will eat (almost) no meat, especially red meat. (Hard for my husband -- he's a carnivore.)
G. I will (try to) eat a diet rich in alkaline, specifically green vegetables.
H. I will take my vitamins, including folic acid, B6 , B12 and zinc.
3. I will laugh really hard at least once a day.
4. I will ask myself Powerful Questions.
5. I will blog at least once a week.
6. I will do something positive (per Bea) as often as I can. (I hope I can get to 50).
Did I forget anything?
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