This hospital has thousands of staff. My husband seems to have a pretty good handle on who all the nurses are (go figure), but I've given up. I don't even bother anymore. Auto pilot. I usually plow into the NICU at full speed and head to my son's bed. If a nurse starts talking to me, I don't even look up. Sorry. I swear I'm listening but I don't care to know your name or your face because you'll be gone in 7 hours anyways.
My son had a procedure earlier today and I entirely forgot that I was warned that he might be moved to a different room afterwards.
I did my usual FULL SPEED AHEAD!!!! type walk into Son's OLD room. I'm staring at a baby, confused... hmmm... that's not my baby. Then I look around and realize there are a handful of people also staring at me, confused. A woman that I'm assuming was the mom, (with an almost pissed off expression because she's wondering why the hell I'm so close to her baby,) says, "I'm sorry, I don't think I've met you."
You're right. That's yours... Where's Mine?
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Maybe There's Still Hope...
I posted on Facebook requesting anyone who attended our fundraiser event on Sunday to please send me their address.
(If you attended you would have agreed that there was absolutely no hope of passing around a guest book. The restaurant was chaos!)
Something interesting happened, and when I make an interesting observation, I will definitely share it.
It's a full day later yet NOT ONE SINGLE PERSON sent me their address.
I find this odd because at one point I proudly acquired over 70 "likes" on a silly cat photo within hours, so I know people are out there listening, but... could it be?... With hundreds of people showing up at the event to show their support, could it be possible that seriously not one single person is expecting anything in return?
Maybe there is still hope for humanity.
Hmm... I will have to ponder this strange phenomena a little more.
(If you attended you would have agreed that there was absolutely no hope of passing around a guest book. The restaurant was chaos!)
Something interesting happened, and when I make an interesting observation, I will definitely share it.
It's a full day later yet NOT ONE SINGLE PERSON sent me their address.
I find this odd because at one point I proudly acquired over 70 "likes" on a silly cat photo within hours, so I know people are out there listening, but... could it be?... With hundreds of people showing up at the event to show their support, could it be possible that seriously not one single person is expecting anything in return?
Maybe there is still hope for humanity.
Hmm... I will have to ponder this strange phenomena a little more.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Delirious
Mentally, I feel like I can entirely handle this entire situation. I am ready to ROCK, conquer it all, KICK THIS SYNDROME'S ASS, power ahead at 400 miles per hour, and someday soon run 38 miles home with my baby. Oh, what's that? Ya want me to repaint the entire hospital in my down time? SURE! Find a cure for Fryn's while simultaneously making balloon animals in the playroom? I'M ON IT!
Physically, my body does not agree.
I don't really know how to explain this next part. It might make you raise an eyebrow and seriously wonder, "Wow, she's on some special kind of crack."
Let's start with the movie Avatar. There is a scene when the main male character returns to his human body, yet his love is still in her 14-foot tall, blue, Avatar body. She saves his life. She still loves him. She looks at him, presses her hand to his heart, and says, "I see YOU." Hold onto that concept as you continue reading.
I often describe myself as being separate from my body. I describe it in the form of, "My body has decided to stop producing milk..." Or, "I don't want the pain pills because I don't want my body to become addicted."
I am Jacee, and my mind is separate from this shell of a body that I'm stuck in. I might be 120 pounds or 208 pounds, but I'm Jacee, and I'm in this body.
When I look at you, I am not looking at your hair, or whether you are looking fashionable with your leggings and boots, or if your clothes match. I am looking at YOU; at your soul, and I will see you for who you really are. I hope that makes sense, and I hope you see ME, too.
I hate slowing down in any situation, and I hate to admit it, but my body is giving up.
If it were up to me, I'd be running laps around the hospital until my legs are burning while twirling a baton and directing the marching band.
But just like I had no control over my body deciding to stop producing milk, I feel like I have no control over how tired I am.
I described it to Dan as a car that has gone a hundred thousand miles past it's scheduled "change oil" date. It just breaks down.
It's like when people remark that the President's hair has turned white or grayed by the end of his term. It's stress. Through no conscious effort of their own, a person's body will just react to stress.
I've been pushed many miles past the "change oil" date. And now, it's extremely frustrating to the lucid, mental part of me that I can't do everything I need to/want to do, because my body is just breaking down, and apparently needs to sleep for 12 hours a day (even though I'll still wake up exhausted with tired eyes.)
If this makes me sound crazy, it's because at this point... I probably am.
***Side note.... I just watched a guy throw a chair in the kitchen and storm out on the woman he's with.*** Never a dull moment.
Physically, my body does not agree.
I don't really know how to explain this next part. It might make you raise an eyebrow and seriously wonder, "Wow, she's on some special kind of crack."
Let's start with the movie Avatar. There is a scene when the main male character returns to his human body, yet his love is still in her 14-foot tall, blue, Avatar body. She saves his life. She still loves him. She looks at him, presses her hand to his heart, and says, "I see YOU." Hold onto that concept as you continue reading.
I often describe myself as being separate from my body. I describe it in the form of, "My body has decided to stop producing milk..." Or, "I don't want the pain pills because I don't want my body to become addicted."
I am Jacee, and my mind is separate from this shell of a body that I'm stuck in. I might be 120 pounds or 208 pounds, but I'm Jacee, and I'm in this body.
When I look at you, I am not looking at your hair, or whether you are looking fashionable with your leggings and boots, or if your clothes match. I am looking at YOU; at your soul, and I will see you for who you really are. I hope that makes sense, and I hope you see ME, too.
I hate slowing down in any situation, and I hate to admit it, but my body is giving up.
If it were up to me, I'd be running laps around the hospital until my legs are burning while twirling a baton and directing the marching band.
But just like I had no control over my body deciding to stop producing milk, I feel like I have no control over how tired I am.
I described it to Dan as a car that has gone a hundred thousand miles past it's scheduled "change oil" date. It just breaks down.
It's like when people remark that the President's hair has turned white or grayed by the end of his term. It's stress. Through no conscious effort of their own, a person's body will just react to stress.
I've been pushed many miles past the "change oil" date. And now, it's extremely frustrating to the lucid, mental part of me that I can't do everything I need to/want to do, because my body is just breaking down, and apparently needs to sleep for 12 hours a day (even though I'll still wake up exhausted with tired eyes.)
If this makes me sound crazy, it's because at this point... I probably am.
***Side note.... I just watched a guy throw a chair in the kitchen and storm out on the woman he's with.*** Never a dull moment.
Flexible Hose
Ladies, there is an infomercial out there right now about a new product simply called a "Flexible Hose."
It sounds handy. It coils itself right back up after usage and therefore takes up almost no space at all compared to a normal hose.
However, do not let your man see this infomercial, because if he's as immature as mine, he will laugh all the way to Seattle about all the things he could do with "Flexible HOES."
It sounds handy. It coils itself right back up after usage and therefore takes up almost no space at all compared to a normal hose.
However, do not let your man see this infomercial, because if he's as immature as mine, he will laugh all the way to Seattle about all the things he could do with "Flexible HOES."
Oh, hey Dude.
Upon moving into the hospital, Dan and I coined a specific area in the family room as "our area". It is the one and only semi-private area with a couch and a TV. It's a very coveted spot.
That's where we sit and watch late night TV and reconnect with eachother while we pretend our son wasn't dealt the worst cards ever. There's usually a bag of popcorn involved.
About two weeks ago, I left our tiny unit and set out to get the microwave working on our snack and reserve "OUR spot," and Dan was expected to meet me there within a few minutes.
Nope, I returned to our unit, bag of popcorn in hand, head and shoulders sagging a little bit, and explained that there's some dude out there in a white hat, fully sprawled out on OUR couch. Date night was doomed!
Then I had an idea... Told Dan that I'm on my way back there to sit next to White Hat Dude on the small couch, hopefully evoking feelings of awkwardness that would result in him leaving.
So there I am.... sitting on that couch.... Dude fully stretched out.... he thinks nothing of it...
I text Dan, "Plan is not working!"
He responds, "I'm on my way!"
He comes out to family room and casually smashes himself next to me on that little couch. Dude scrunches himself up a little more but still doesn't acknowledge either of us.
Well, soon we learn that Dude's name is Josh. He tells us his story and we tell him ours. There is an unspoken feeling of unity because the three of us are all here because we all have a child in the hospital. And since that awkward meeting, Josh Dude has already delivered a free cord of firewood to our house at the cost of his gas money, and has become a pretty awesome friend. I also introduced him to an equally awesome female friend of mine and so far... the love connection seems to be working out pretty well for them :) .
Life can be crazy with it's wheelings and dealings of the way the cards are dealt, but maybe there really is a method to the madness.
That's where we sit and watch late night TV and reconnect with eachother while we pretend our son wasn't dealt the worst cards ever. There's usually a bag of popcorn involved.
About two weeks ago, I left our tiny unit and set out to get the microwave working on our snack and reserve "OUR spot," and Dan was expected to meet me there within a few minutes.
Nope, I returned to our unit, bag of popcorn in hand, head and shoulders sagging a little bit, and explained that there's some dude out there in a white hat, fully sprawled out on OUR couch. Date night was doomed!
Then I had an idea... Told Dan that I'm on my way back there to sit next to White Hat Dude on the small couch, hopefully evoking feelings of awkwardness that would result in him leaving.
So there I am.... sitting on that couch.... Dude fully stretched out.... he thinks nothing of it...
I text Dan, "Plan is not working!"
He responds, "I'm on my way!"
He comes out to family room and casually smashes himself next to me on that little couch. Dude scrunches himself up a little more but still doesn't acknowledge either of us.
Well, soon we learn that Dude's name is Josh. He tells us his story and we tell him ours. There is an unspoken feeling of unity because the three of us are all here because we all have a child in the hospital. And since that awkward meeting, Josh Dude has already delivered a free cord of firewood to our house at the cost of his gas money, and has become a pretty awesome friend. I also introduced him to an equally awesome female friend of mine and so far... the love connection seems to be working out pretty well for them :) .
Life can be crazy with it's wheelings and dealings of the way the cards are dealt, but maybe there really is a method to the madness.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Pennies From Heaven
My mom came over yesterday with intention of picking me up for a pedicure but after explaining to her that after 9 months of pregnancy, I really can't stomach wine, yet was stuck with 4 open bottles from the Friday night event, she came inside and we laughed and cried for hours while her one glass turned into three.
We talked about my Grandpa; my "Papi."
I asked if she could find time to give Tinkerbell (My grandpa's dog. He died last month and I was recently able to go to Oregon and get her,) a bath and wash her jacket, because I'd kept Tinkerbell overnight and she smelled horrifically like cigarettes.
Mom says that she has already washed Tinker twice, and that my niece has even covered Tinker's eyes in the tub while they washed her face. The jacket has been washed in hot water twice as well.
I take it as a sign that my Papi is with Tinker.
During the chat with her at my house, I told her.... "Your dad is here."
Others might not notice, but I do.
Son's indoor swing will start swinging without any sort of stimulation.
The windchime hanging in the kitchen that I bought as a memorial type thing randomly starts chiming, without any open windows or a breeze from anywhere. (Trust me, it's January in Washington. I do not have any open windows).
I look at the wood stove, frowning, thinking, "AW MAN! I let my awesome fire die!" And then the stove instantly reignites itself full of red hot flames.
I asked "the guys" (refer to http://staytunedtoace.blogspot.com/2013/01/only-for-believers.html if you're wondering who "the guys" are) to please leave my bedroom before it gets awkward while I pump. Within seconds, Tinker started making a funky, curious squeakish type noise and jumped off the bed with her little 2-inch legs and ran after them out the bedroom door. (This spoiled little dog hates jumping off the bed and also prefers to whine at you from the bottom of a staircase instead of just climbing her lazy ass up.)
I go to the kitchen to grab a straw for my ice water while I'm typing on the bedroom computer. And then of course it's just my luck that my straw is broken, *Sigh*
I tell my sarcastic Jackass of a grandpa to please stop breaking my straws.
I return to kitchen, grab a new one, go back to desk chair, and guess what! That one's broken too.
I return to kitchen, grab a new one, go back to desk chair, and guess what! That one's broken too.
(No, that repeat was not a computer error. I went through three damn broken straws before getting one that wasn't defective.)
Last night I sat down in the living room with a cup and a handful of straws. Dan and his two guests looked at me like, "Whoa, what are you about to do with all those straws?" I don't bother explaining the back story and only say that I need extra "just in case the first one breaks down."
My Grandpa is laughing while twirling his fingers in Heaven. Prankster.
Mom and I did eventually go out but it was for food, not pedicures.
There was a penny on the walkway from my front porch to my driveway.
Mom grabs my arm and says, "Jacee, my eyes are always searching the ground for coins, and that was not here when I arrived. It's a penny from someone in Heaven."
We talked about my Grandpa; my "Papi."
I asked if she could find time to give Tinkerbell (My grandpa's dog. He died last month and I was recently able to go to Oregon and get her,) a bath and wash her jacket, because I'd kept Tinkerbell overnight and she smelled horrifically like cigarettes.
Mom says that she has already washed Tinker twice, and that my niece has even covered Tinker's eyes in the tub while they washed her face. The jacket has been washed in hot water twice as well.
I take it as a sign that my Papi is with Tinker.
During the chat with her at my house, I told her.... "Your dad is here."
Others might not notice, but I do.
Son's indoor swing will start swinging without any sort of stimulation.
The windchime hanging in the kitchen that I bought as a memorial type thing randomly starts chiming, without any open windows or a breeze from anywhere. (Trust me, it's January in Washington. I do not have any open windows).
I look at the wood stove, frowning, thinking, "AW MAN! I let my awesome fire die!" And then the stove instantly reignites itself full of red hot flames.
I asked "the guys" (refer to http://staytunedtoace.blogspot.com/2013/01/only-for-believers.html if you're wondering who "the guys" are) to please leave my bedroom before it gets awkward while I pump. Within seconds, Tinker started making a funky, curious squeakish type noise and jumped off the bed with her little 2-inch legs and ran after them out the bedroom door. (This spoiled little dog hates jumping off the bed and also prefers to whine at you from the bottom of a staircase instead of just climbing her lazy ass up.)
I go to the kitchen to grab a straw for my ice water while I'm typing on the bedroom computer. And then of course it's just my luck that my straw is broken, *Sigh*
I tell my sarcastic Jackass of a grandpa to please stop breaking my straws.
I return to kitchen, grab a new one, go back to desk chair, and guess what! That one's broken too.
I return to kitchen, grab a new one, go back to desk chair, and guess what! That one's broken too.
(No, that repeat was not a computer error. I went through three damn broken straws before getting one that wasn't defective.)
Last night I sat down in the living room with a cup and a handful of straws. Dan and his two guests looked at me like, "Whoa, what are you about to do with all those straws?" I don't bother explaining the back story and only say that I need extra "just in case the first one breaks down."
My Grandpa is laughing while twirling his fingers in Heaven. Prankster.
Mom and I did eventually go out but it was for food, not pedicures.
There was a penny on the walkway from my front porch to my driveway.
Mom grabs my arm and says, "Jacee, my eyes are always searching the ground for coins, and that was not here when I arrived. It's a penny from someone in Heaven."
The Little Things
One thing you should know about me is that I ALWAYS pay in EXACT change. Sometimes I opt for the self-check out machine and feed $17 of change into it just to rid myself of what I've acquired. (Dan still hates it when I do this. Get used to it, Bud.)
A few weeks before Robert's birth, Dan told me that he regularly hides coins for me to find when I clean because he knows it makes me happy to find change.
I seriously cleaned the heck out of my house on Friday before friends arrived, but while cleaning up yesterday, there was a quarter on the coffee table and a nickle by the security camera screen. (Dan had already come home to fetch me yet went down for a nap instead of immediately returning to hospital.)
I love that man.
A few weeks before Robert's birth, Dan told me that he regularly hides coins for me to find when I clean because he knows it makes me happy to find change.
I seriously cleaned the heck out of my house on Friday before friends arrived, but while cleaning up yesterday, there was a quarter on the coffee table and a nickle by the security camera screen. (Dan had already come home to fetch me yet went down for a nap instead of immediately returning to hospital.)
I love that man.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
I'm Too Old For This
I'm old-fashioned. I've heard from handfuls of people that I'm an "old soul."
[Disclaimer: My previous statement does not include the fact that I have a young potty mouth at this time, but I plead temporary insanity.]
If you're reading this, you most likely know my husband, and you most likely know that he is a real "manly man." He's a bad ass. He loves guns, pit bulls, trucks with big tires (which he then ironically "bags" them), and knowing he can protect and provide for his family.
An outsider looking in could easily think, "Wow... Jacee is kind of a dead beat.... She didn't finish college... She doesn't work... Well, what DOES she do?"
This next bit is something I've never felt like explaining; but the way we live has always been the plan. Our plan. Sure I might just be setting the Women's Right's movement back another 60 years, but this was always the plan.
You've likely seen the TV show "I Love Lucy" which I believe started airing around 1952. Sure I could look it up real quick, but don't care that much.
I musta been born in the wrong era because that's the lifestyle I want, and when Dan asked me to marry him, it was just known that that would be the life I'd get. It's the life we both want.
He told me that I will never work again because he'd bring home the bacon and I'd cook it.
He's the man and I am HIS woman.
I will get the pleasure of running around barefoot and pregnant.
I will make the bed every morning after he leaves for work.
I will never need to drive myself again.
I will find time to care for all the animals, wash the dishes, have laundry washed, dried, folded and put away before he comes home from work, push a vacuum for awhile, and there will be lunch on the table while the dinner meat is thawing.
I will collect the eggs and clean the coop.
I will do the grocery shopping, manage the bills and all the other mundane tasks of running a household.
He will chop and bring in the firewood, (but I will make the fire, because I like fire ;).
I am valued for reasons besides a dollar amount that I bring to the table.
I wish I lived in the days when people dressed up just to sit at the dinner table for a meal. Or people played cards with their friends and sent out cards in the mail.
The days when men would say, "You are beautiful," instead of, "You look beautiful."
I will continue to send out checks in the mail instead of signing up for automatic bill pay.
And when my cell phone contract is expired, that thing is GONE! You will then have to get ahold of me by calling my home landline, and I will get the pleasure of asking about your day, because ya know what? I am one of a declining population that genuinely care.
Gone will be the days of recieving texts that only say "Hey."
Really? Three letters? Don't even bother me. I also prefer that you smile at me in person instead of in a text.
Am I being demanding? Or has the evolution of technology made it so damn simple to forget about really connecting with others?
Maybe I've spent too many hours watching I Love Lucy and wondering why that time period had to go.
Too much change for this ol' fart.
[Disclaimer: My previous statement does not include the fact that I have a young potty mouth at this time, but I plead temporary insanity.]
If you're reading this, you most likely know my husband, and you most likely know that he is a real "manly man." He's a bad ass. He loves guns, pit bulls, trucks with big tires (which he then ironically "bags" them), and knowing he can protect and provide for his family.
An outsider looking in could easily think, "Wow... Jacee is kind of a dead beat.... She didn't finish college... She doesn't work... Well, what DOES she do?"
This next bit is something I've never felt like explaining; but the way we live has always been the plan. Our plan. Sure I might just be setting the Women's Right's movement back another 60 years, but this was always the plan.
You've likely seen the TV show "I Love Lucy" which I believe started airing around 1952. Sure I could look it up real quick, but don't care that much.
I musta been born in the wrong era because that's the lifestyle I want, and when Dan asked me to marry him, it was just known that that would be the life I'd get. It's the life we both want.
He told me that I will never work again because he'd bring home the bacon and I'd cook it.
He's the man and I am HIS woman.
I will get the pleasure of running around barefoot and pregnant.
I will make the bed every morning after he leaves for work.
I will never need to drive myself again.
I will find time to care for all the animals, wash the dishes, have laundry washed, dried, folded and put away before he comes home from work, push a vacuum for awhile, and there will be lunch on the table while the dinner meat is thawing.
I will collect the eggs and clean the coop.
I will do the grocery shopping, manage the bills and all the other mundane tasks of running a household.
He will chop and bring in the firewood, (but I will make the fire, because I like fire ;).
I am valued for reasons besides a dollar amount that I bring to the table.
I wish I lived in the days when people dressed up just to sit at the dinner table for a meal. Or people played cards with their friends and sent out cards in the mail.
The days when men would say, "You are beautiful," instead of, "You look beautiful."
I will continue to send out checks in the mail instead of signing up for automatic bill pay.
And when my cell phone contract is expired, that thing is GONE! You will then have to get ahold of me by calling my home landline, and I will get the pleasure of asking about your day, because ya know what? I am one of a declining population that genuinely care.
Gone will be the days of recieving texts that only say "Hey."
Really? Three letters? Don't even bother me. I also prefer that you smile at me in person instead of in a text.
Am I being demanding? Or has the evolution of technology made it so damn simple to forget about really connecting with others?
Maybe I've spent too many hours watching I Love Lucy and wondering why that time period had to go.
Too much change for this ol' fart.
We're Really Not That Different
I purposely throw myself out there and leave the door open for judgement. I want to know YOU and I want you to know me. Only then can we decide if we're worth eachother's time before we spend years kicking rocks around while pretending to care.
Judge me, please, and then I will throw rocks right back at your glass house. Might just give ya something to talk about at your tea party.
Back in the day before I was a married old lady, I had a handful of friends that were known to do/say weird and unsavory things. I always thought, "Eh, if she's not embarrassed for herself, than I'm not gonna be embarrassed for her. Rock on, Girl!"
And by this point, I am positive that I must be classified by someone to fall into that group of people that do weird and unsavory things.
It's whatev...
I will continue to swear on the internet. (Fuck it!) It's not because I have a poor vocabulary. Trust me, I know a ton of big words. Just so happens that at this point in my life, my moods and thoughts are best understood by immaturely swearing online. (Pssssst! I don't give a fuck!)
I want to look back when I'm 65 and laugh while shaking my head about what an idiot I was. But I want to remember these feelings.
I will continue to start sentences with words such as "And", and "But", even though it makes every English teacher I've ever had shake their head as well. Can we all just join hands and simultaneously shake our heads together? Might speed things up a bit.
I will continue to be a sarcastic jackass. Get used to it.
But if you are reading this, I will continue to love you. I will fight for you. I will be honest with you and with myself. I will run in when everyone else is running out. My shirt? Oh ya want it? Sure, take it. I know that I am innately good and go through life with the purest heart and giving soul, and I will only surround myself with those that can reciprocate the feeling.
I will continue to write weird stuff about ghosts and my animals, and that my husband can read my mind and hears me from miles away.
I tend to think that I'm not the only person that feels these things, thinks these things, etc. Maybe I'm just the only one crazy enough to throw them out there on a public forum. It's how I keep track of where I was at in life.
Judge me all ya want. I promise you that I can handle ANY situation, and since I've brought you into my life...all I ask is that you please wipe your feet.
Judge me, please, and then I will throw rocks right back at your glass house. Might just give ya something to talk about at your tea party.
Back in the day before I was a married old lady, I had a handful of friends that were known to do/say weird and unsavory things. I always thought, "Eh, if she's not embarrassed for herself, than I'm not gonna be embarrassed for her. Rock on, Girl!"
And by this point, I am positive that I must be classified by someone to fall into that group of people that do weird and unsavory things.
It's whatev...
I will continue to swear on the internet. (Fuck it!) It's not because I have a poor vocabulary. Trust me, I know a ton of big words. Just so happens that at this point in my life, my moods and thoughts are best understood by immaturely swearing online. (Pssssst! I don't give a fuck!)
I want to look back when I'm 65 and laugh while shaking my head about what an idiot I was. But I want to remember these feelings.
I will continue to start sentences with words such as "And", and "But", even though it makes every English teacher I've ever had shake their head as well. Can we all just join hands and simultaneously shake our heads together? Might speed things up a bit.
I will continue to be a sarcastic jackass. Get used to it.
But if you are reading this, I will continue to love you. I will fight for you. I will be honest with you and with myself. I will run in when everyone else is running out. My shirt? Oh ya want it? Sure, take it. I know that I am innately good and go through life with the purest heart and giving soul, and I will only surround myself with those that can reciprocate the feeling.
I will continue to write weird stuff about ghosts and my animals, and that my husband can read my mind and hears me from miles away.
I tend to think that I'm not the only person that feels these things, thinks these things, etc. Maybe I'm just the only one crazy enough to throw them out there on a public forum. It's how I keep track of where I was at in life.
Judge me all ya want. I promise you that I can handle ANY situation, and since I've brought you into my life...all I ask is that you please wipe your feet.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Pt. 2 : Only for the believers
My mom picked me up from the hospital earlier today because I overdid it and obligated myself to three events in three days.
I cried while we pulled out of the hospital parking garage. Even though Dan is picking me up tomorrow after Saturday's event to go back to my baby, this is going to be a very hard weekend.
I am trying so hard to get my house ready for the "women's-only" party here and with only two hours left, I started setting up the "private ordering" place in my son's room. I collapsed on the floor and just cried. And cried. And cried. There should be a baby in that bed.
I cried on the floor and begged for anyone listening (Yes I believe in spirits and love knowing my son is surrounded by his grandpas and other passed loved ones), and I begged for anyone listening to hug me and help me get through this weekend.
I am being extremely literal about this next part: I was immediately pulled off the ground. I didn't even have time to look from side-to-side but I was fully standing through no conscious effort of my own.
My tears dried up. My cheeks were no longer flushed. And after being reassured that I am surrounded by love, I know I will make it through this weekend.
Thanks for the hugs, guys.
I cried while we pulled out of the hospital parking garage. Even though Dan is picking me up tomorrow after Saturday's event to go back to my baby, this is going to be a very hard weekend.
I am trying so hard to get my house ready for the "women's-only" party here and with only two hours left, I started setting up the "private ordering" place in my son's room. I collapsed on the floor and just cried. And cried. And cried. There should be a baby in that bed.
I cried on the floor and begged for anyone listening (Yes I believe in spirits and love knowing my son is surrounded by his grandpas and other passed loved ones), and I begged for anyone listening to hug me and help me get through this weekend.
I am being extremely literal about this next part: I was immediately pulled off the ground. I didn't even have time to look from side-to-side but I was fully standing through no conscious effort of my own.
My tears dried up. My cheeks were no longer flushed. And after being reassured that I am surrounded by love, I know I will make it through this weekend.
Thanks for the hugs, guys.
Who Cares?
Today I woke up at 2:00am with a woman standing in our tiny hospital unit, staring at me sleeping on the floor.
I'm incredibly used to this occurrence by now. (Please refer to this post: http://staytunedtoace.blogspot.com/2013/01/hey-im-just-as-bad-as-you.html)
Without skipping a beat, with one tired eye open I say, "Hi. Coulda sworn the party was tomorrow."
She walks out without saying a word.
Dan keeps telling me, "JUST close the door!!"
No. It's MY door, and I will leave it cracked, and if people really can't resist the urge to open it ALL the way, ALL the time and see whatever weird stuff we're up to, than I don't care, either.
We are only allowed to have one room key. This gets tricky because there are times when one wants to go shower while the other goes to living room to watch TV. Or one goes downstairs to check on Son while other has to visit with the social worker.
We usually just leave the door cracked even though it concerns Dan every single time.
He is convinced that everyone and anyone is trying to rob us and will if given the chance.
I just sigh and shake my head.
Okay, let's assume that our unit is robbed, in a hospital that requires every single person to pass security and wear a badge, and then walk down corridors that each and every single one has cameras.
We own nothing valuable. And if we did, we certainly wouldn't have it here.
So... what's the big deal? Someone steals a 6-pack of orange soda, a $15 plastic shelf that we brought to store our thrift store clothing, and our hospital provided blankets?
Let's focus that paranoid energy elsewhere.
Yes, it's good to keep your guard up to a certain degree, because yes, there are a ton of people in the world that would love to rip you off. After stressing about who would carry the door key or who would meet who where, I told Dan that NOT EVERYONE IS OUT TO GET YOU.
Then I realized how sad it is that I have to reassure my husband of that. I still have hope that there is some innate good in everyone.
Everyone is here because they got past security because they know a child here. I'd like to think that everyone here is concerned about something other than a phone charger. And if they aren't, we'll buy a new one.
I'm incredibly used to this occurrence by now. (Please refer to this post: http://staytunedtoace.blogspot.com/2013/01/hey-im-just-as-bad-as-you.html)
Without skipping a beat, with one tired eye open I say, "Hi. Coulda sworn the party was tomorrow."
She walks out without saying a word.
Dan keeps telling me, "JUST close the door!!"
No. It's MY door, and I will leave it cracked, and if people really can't resist the urge to open it ALL the way, ALL the time and see whatever weird stuff we're up to, than I don't care, either.
We are only allowed to have one room key. This gets tricky because there are times when one wants to go shower while the other goes to living room to watch TV. Or one goes downstairs to check on Son while other has to visit with the social worker.
We usually just leave the door cracked even though it concerns Dan every single time.
He is convinced that everyone and anyone is trying to rob us and will if given the chance.
I just sigh and shake my head.
Okay, let's assume that our unit is robbed, in a hospital that requires every single person to pass security and wear a badge, and then walk down corridors that each and every single one has cameras.
We own nothing valuable. And if we did, we certainly wouldn't have it here.
So... what's the big deal? Someone steals a 6-pack of orange soda, a $15 plastic shelf that we brought to store our thrift store clothing, and our hospital provided blankets?
Let's focus that paranoid energy elsewhere.
Yes, it's good to keep your guard up to a certain degree, because yes, there are a ton of people in the world that would love to rip you off. After stressing about who would carry the door key or who would meet who where, I told Dan that NOT EVERYONE IS OUT TO GET YOU.
Then I realized how sad it is that I have to reassure my husband of that. I still have hope that there is some innate good in everyone.
Everyone is here because they got past security because they know a child here. I'd like to think that everyone here is concerned about something other than a phone charger. And if they aren't, we'll buy a new one.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Breakfast Bacon & Breast Milk
So let's see... It's 8:40am on Thursday the 24th. I believe I slept for about 3-4 hours during the wee hours of Tuesday the 22nd after searching for a dead chicken. Needless to say that, yes, I am extremely tired.
Know how I keep saying that there's no such thing as time when you live in the hospital? I thought it was just me that felt that way but the feeling finally sank into Dan as well.
We went to the cafeteria for our "breakfast bacon" at 6:30am. Not once has he stuck to the two pieces of bacon that we daily agree on during our walk there. Whole plate load and $13 later, we head back to our unit.
By 8:00am, he was glancing at his plate again and asked, "Do you think it's okay to eat eggs that have been sitting out all day?"
Really Dan? They were purchased an hour and a half ago. Eat the damn scrambled eggs! He somehow already thought they were from yesterday..
K, done with that story. Tangent alert!
Some women never produce breast milk. Some only produce it for 2 weeks while others produce it for 7 years. I have pumped and pumped and pumped every 3 hours since Son's birth. Well... at 5 weeks old, and without having a baby to hold to my chest, it appears I have started to dry up.
I told Son's nurse that he will soon need to switch to formula when the supply runs out.
She says, "Oh well there are ways we can fix that."
Fix "that"? You mean "fix me"?
I'm broken?
Thought this was a totally normal thing but I guess not, and now I need to be fixed.
Know how I keep saying that there's no such thing as time when you live in the hospital? I thought it was just me that felt that way but the feeling finally sank into Dan as well.
We went to the cafeteria for our "breakfast bacon" at 6:30am. Not once has he stuck to the two pieces of bacon that we daily agree on during our walk there. Whole plate load and $13 later, we head back to our unit.
By 8:00am, he was glancing at his plate again and asked, "Do you think it's okay to eat eggs that have been sitting out all day?"
Really Dan? They were purchased an hour and a half ago. Eat the damn scrambled eggs! He somehow already thought they were from yesterday..
K, done with that story. Tangent alert!
Some women never produce breast milk. Some only produce it for 2 weeks while others produce it for 7 years. I have pumped and pumped and pumped every 3 hours since Son's birth. Well... at 5 weeks old, and without having a baby to hold to my chest, it appears I have started to dry up.
I told Son's nurse that he will soon need to switch to formula when the supply runs out.
She says, "Oh well there are ways we can fix that."
Fix "that"? You mean "fix me"?
I'm broken?
Thought this was a totally normal thing but I guess not, and now I need to be fixed.
Let It Be.
New Rule: Do Not Go Back And Edit Your Old Posts.
Ignore the typos. Ignore the missing words. Ignore the fact that you didn't say exactly what you wanted to say.
It was exactly how I was at that specific point in time. Screen shot of my life.
I think I mentioned it somewhere in 2008; (during the time I was a full-time photographer), about the PTA moms that enjoyed letting their children pick out their outfit and do their own hair for picture day, because it's not about dressing yourself up, it's about capturing who were at that exact moment in time.
So yes, I acknowledge that my sleep deprived eyes have caused some crappy writing, but that's okay.
I have decided to stop trying to fix it.
Ignore the typos. Ignore the missing words. Ignore the fact that you didn't say exactly what you wanted to say.
It was exactly how I was at that specific point in time. Screen shot of my life.
I think I mentioned it somewhere in 2008; (during the time I was a full-time photographer), about the PTA moms that enjoyed letting their children pick out their outfit and do their own hair for picture day, because it's not about dressing yourself up, it's about capturing who were at that exact moment in time.
So yes, I acknowledge that my sleep deprived eyes have caused some crappy writing, but that's okay.
I have decided to stop trying to fix it.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Flying Man
In the same Fred Meyer venture that I described below, I also managed to acquire a thin, 3-shelf tupperware type thing for us to make life easier while in hospital. That sleeper unit sure has a way of feeling cramped real quick even though we have nothing material to show for it!
Dan dropped me off at the top level of the parking garage and it was my mission to run around to as many floors as necessary until I found a red wagon, generously provided by the hospital, and then without my hospital badge, ID, or cell phone, we would just magically find eachother. Guess what? Took me 3 floors to find a wagon, yet less than a minute to find Dan.
We loaded up the red wagon with everything new going to our unit. We laugh each and every time about how we are "moving in", again.
Being the seasoned veterans that we are, we cruise past the 12ish people waiting at the security desk for clearance, dragging this damn red wagon, and while attempting to flash our parental badges and keep on casually walking, some dude does a 180 degree turn and literally flings himself over our wagon, goes crashing to the ground, wondering if he's just smashed a child, and immediately we get surrounded by security and his family members, who were screaming, "Dad!"
Probably not how he planned on starting his day, but also not how I was planning my day, either.
Two hours of sleep.
Dentist appointment.
Hour and a half drive.
Attempt to cause an elderly man's death.
Get searched by security to prove that No, I am not carrying a small child under that towel covering some more that frownable items.
Check please!
Ugh.
Dan dropped me off at the top level of the parking garage and it was my mission to run around to as many floors as necessary until I found a red wagon, generously provided by the hospital, and then without my hospital badge, ID, or cell phone, we would just magically find eachother. Guess what? Took me 3 floors to find a wagon, yet less than a minute to find Dan.
We loaded up the red wagon with everything new going to our unit. We laugh each and every time about how we are "moving in", again.
Being the seasoned veterans that we are, we cruise past the 12ish people waiting at the security desk for clearance, dragging this damn red wagon, and while attempting to flash our parental badges and keep on casually walking, some dude does a 180 degree turn and literally flings himself over our wagon, goes crashing to the ground, wondering if he's just smashed a child, and immediately we get surrounded by security and his family members, who were screaming, "Dad!"
Probably not how he planned on starting his day, but also not how I was planning my day, either.
Two hours of sleep.
Dentist appointment.
Hour and a half drive.
Attempt to cause an elderly man's death.
Get searched by security to prove that No, I am not carrying a small child under that towel covering some more that frownable items.
Check please!
Ugh.
$55
Yesterday I did something for myself that I haven't done in years.
I purchased brand new clothing. Even though we've never been poor, I have still always preferred thrift store shopping, and I like to joke that I'm like that because we all know I'm gonna mess up my clothing anyways. I'd rather openly have fun and play, while rolling around in mudd or down giant grassy hills instead of worrying about my $200 pants.
I went to Fred Meyer last night to purchase a few things for our household and saw the clothing section. Thought, "Eh.... maybe you do deserve a brand new shirt for once... and you've spent most of your life in someone's leftovers." I want to look halfway decent for the fundraiser dinner on Sunday.
Found two that I liked and fit me well. I wasn't expecting thrift store prices but I almost crapped myself in the dressing room when I looked at the price tags. S%@#!
Thinking, "We can't afford this! This could be a Comcast bill, or put towards my maxed out credit card, or put towards our past due medical bills."
But then I looked at myself in the mirror. I was wearing my husband's sweat pants, my husband's t-shirt, and my husband's hoodie. And I looked like shit. And I don't deserve to feel like shit.
So yes, I put that $55 worth of two shirts back into my cart and discarded all my feelings of guilt, because after all we've been through, I was shaking my head for even questioning if my happiness and pride is worth $55.
Yes, Jacee, you are worth at least $55.
I purchased brand new clothing. Even though we've never been poor, I have still always preferred thrift store shopping, and I like to joke that I'm like that because we all know I'm gonna mess up my clothing anyways. I'd rather openly have fun and play, while rolling around in mudd or down giant grassy hills instead of worrying about my $200 pants.
I went to Fred Meyer last night to purchase a few things for our household and saw the clothing section. Thought, "Eh.... maybe you do deserve a brand new shirt for once... and you've spent most of your life in someone's leftovers." I want to look halfway decent for the fundraiser dinner on Sunday.
Found two that I liked and fit me well. I wasn't expecting thrift store prices but I almost crapped myself in the dressing room when I looked at the price tags. S%@#!
Thinking, "We can't afford this! This could be a Comcast bill, or put towards my maxed out credit card, or put towards our past due medical bills."
But then I looked at myself in the mirror. I was wearing my husband's sweat pants, my husband's t-shirt, and my husband's hoodie. And I looked like shit. And I don't deserve to feel like shit.
So yes, I put that $55 worth of two shirts back into my cart and discarded all my feelings of guilt, because after all we've been through, I was shaking my head for even questioning if my happiness and pride is worth $55.
Yes, Jacee, you are worth at least $55.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
An Unknown Lesson from Dad
As a young girl, I woulda sworn up and down that my dad was a super hero.
He was the strongest man ever. He could somehow carry both his daughters (before Allison was born) into the grocery store at the same time, even if one was on his shoulders while the other rode a hip or a leg. Strongest. Man. Ever.
He was the tallest man ever, capable of reaching anything unattainable by my little body.
He could make the best fires known to mankind when the power went out, and still make it fun even though we didn't have tv or computer games.
And he could see in the dark.
We made fairly regular trips over the mountain pass to visit family for 4th of July, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. That road was reallllllllyyyy dark.
It was customary for my sisters and I to all make "beds" in the van and try to sleep through the 3 hour trip to Wenatchee. Allison's bed was the short 2-person middle seat. Jena's bed was the 3-person back seat, and I slept on the floor between the two rows of seats. For some reason, I really enjoyed that spot. I would stash goldfish crackers underneath the middle seat and pretend to myself that I was some sort of survivalist and had to ration my food during this insanely long trip. (No I was not every really starving, but these are the kinds of things a 7-year old girl comes up with to keep her brain occupied during car trips).
Anyways, back to my point.
Every now and then I would pop up out of my nest to check where we were. The car would be surrounded in darkness yet Dad was still plowing ahead at full speed. The headlights only showed about 6 feet of road. I felt safe, so I'd just plop back down to my "bed".
Dad was clearly using his super hero powers to see the dark road.
Upon reaching adulthood, I finally realized that my dad has no super hero abilities. He couldn't see the road any farther than I could, yet he just kept on going, trusting that the road is there somewhere.
This road I'm currently on might be really crappy, full of potholes, and get so foggy that I don't know what to expect 6 feet from now, but I know for a fact that IT KEEPS GOING.
He was the strongest man ever. He could somehow carry both his daughters (before Allison was born) into the grocery store at the same time, even if one was on his shoulders while the other rode a hip or a leg. Strongest. Man. Ever.
He was the tallest man ever, capable of reaching anything unattainable by my little body.
He could make the best fires known to mankind when the power went out, and still make it fun even though we didn't have tv or computer games.
And he could see in the dark.
We made fairly regular trips over the mountain pass to visit family for 4th of July, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. That road was reallllllllyyyy dark.
It was customary for my sisters and I to all make "beds" in the van and try to sleep through the 3 hour trip to Wenatchee. Allison's bed was the short 2-person middle seat. Jena's bed was the 3-person back seat, and I slept on the floor between the two rows of seats. For some reason, I really enjoyed that spot. I would stash goldfish crackers underneath the middle seat and pretend to myself that I was some sort of survivalist and had to ration my food during this insanely long trip. (No I was not every really starving, but these are the kinds of things a 7-year old girl comes up with to keep her brain occupied during car trips).
Anyways, back to my point.
Every now and then I would pop up out of my nest to check where we were. The car would be surrounded in darkness yet Dad was still plowing ahead at full speed. The headlights only showed about 6 feet of road. I felt safe, so I'd just plop back down to my "bed".
Dad was clearly using his super hero powers to see the dark road.
Upon reaching adulthood, I finally realized that my dad has no super hero abilities. He couldn't see the road any farther than I could, yet he just kept on going, trusting that the road is there somewhere.
This road I'm currently on might be really crappy, full of potholes, and get so foggy that I don't know what to expect 6 feet from now, but I know for a fact that IT KEEPS GOING.
Monday, January 21, 2013
Only for the Believers
Call me crazy for believing in ghosts.
Last night, on Tina's way out of the hospital, she asked me if my Grandpa Floyd smoked.
Well yes in fact he did.
She said, "I believe he visited Robert three times today, and he's always in the rocking chair. I can smell him. It comes and goes so quickly that it's not as if a smoker has walked by and the smell lingers, it really is a presence that comes and goes."
Instantly brought tears to my eyes. I love to believe that my sweet son is never alone even when I am not in his room.
She said that Robert hangs out with "the guys" because he'll look away from her and focus his adorable eyes elsewhere in the room. "The guys" are Grandpa Robert (Dan's grandpa that sweet baby boy is named after), other Grandpa Robert (cousin Tina's dad), and my Grandpa. She says she has to tell the guys to leave when it's time for baby boy Robert to sleep.
[This is choppy. Sorry I haven't quite figured out how to connect these two entirely different thoughts yet.]
I may not be a Christian, or a follower of any specific religion, but I do believe there is a God and he/it reveals himself in the goodness of others and the compassion that human beings just feel for each other.
God is present when a crying stranger sits down on the couch next to my husband, and Dan automatically hugs him. Or when the homeless man behind me at the gas station can't afford his single stick of string cheese so I pay for it. Or there is a man with two small daughters trying to hold his family together and sleep on the couch here at Children's, so I put a blanket over them.
No need for organized religion. There is definitely a greater power out there somewhere, but I don't quite think it's what everyone expects it to be. It's in us. Just let yourself be open and appreciate all the kind gestures, a cool breeze, or a hug from a stranger. Of course you're leaving yourself open to get hurt, but hey, can't plan that kind of thing.
And then you just hope that the reward was greater than the risk.
Last night, on Tina's way out of the hospital, she asked me if my Grandpa Floyd smoked.
Well yes in fact he did.
She said, "I believe he visited Robert three times today, and he's always in the rocking chair. I can smell him. It comes and goes so quickly that it's not as if a smoker has walked by and the smell lingers, it really is a presence that comes and goes."
Instantly brought tears to my eyes. I love to believe that my sweet son is never alone even when I am not in his room.
She said that Robert hangs out with "the guys" because he'll look away from her and focus his adorable eyes elsewhere in the room. "The guys" are Grandpa Robert (Dan's grandpa that sweet baby boy is named after), other Grandpa Robert (cousin Tina's dad), and my Grandpa. She says she has to tell the guys to leave when it's time for baby boy Robert to sleep.
[This is choppy. Sorry I haven't quite figured out how to connect these two entirely different thoughts yet.]
I may not be a Christian, or a follower of any specific religion, but I do believe there is a God and he/it reveals himself in the goodness of others and the compassion that human beings just feel for each other.
God is present when a crying stranger sits down on the couch next to my husband, and Dan automatically hugs him. Or when the homeless man behind me at the gas station can't afford his single stick of string cheese so I pay for it. Or there is a man with two small daughters trying to hold his family together and sleep on the couch here at Children's, so I put a blanket over them.
No need for organized religion. There is definitely a greater power out there somewhere, but I don't quite think it's what everyone expects it to be. It's in us. Just let yourself be open and appreciate all the kind gestures, a cool breeze, or a hug from a stranger. Of course you're leaving yourself open to get hurt, but hey, can't plan that kind of thing.
And then you just hope that the reward was greater than the risk.
The Road Less Taken
I'm glad no one warned me what I was in for after rejoicing that we were having a baby.
If someone would have told me it'd be this hard, I would have acknowledged, "Well I'm not strong enough to deal with that. Abort!"
Now seeing that precious little face, OHMYGOD. MY son. My son. The best parts of me, and the best parts of Dan. My perfect little baby.
We didn't know what we were in for, but we did it.
My mom visited yesterday and apologized for being late; said she'd passed the freeway exit. Had to get off at the next one. She could've easily just gotten back on the freeway but it was so backed up from traffic and construction that she decided to just explore, and follow roads that ran concurrent with the freeway.
It came down to deciding between choosing the path that she knew would get her to where she needed to go, or taking the unknown road.
And guess what? She reached her destination. And it was all okay. And life went on.
She might not have realized it, but in telling me that story, even though I wasn't personally in the car, I learned from it.
I'm glad nobody told us what to expect. This path is surprisingly okay with me.
If someone would have told me it'd be this hard, I would have acknowledged, "Well I'm not strong enough to deal with that. Abort!"
Now seeing that precious little face, OHMYGOD. MY son. My son. The best parts of me, and the best parts of Dan. My perfect little baby.
We didn't know what we were in for, but we did it.
My mom visited yesterday and apologized for being late; said she'd passed the freeway exit. Had to get off at the next one. She could've easily just gotten back on the freeway but it was so backed up from traffic and construction that she decided to just explore, and follow roads that ran concurrent with the freeway.
It came down to deciding between choosing the path that she knew would get her to where she needed to go, or taking the unknown road.
And guess what? She reached her destination. And it was all okay. And life went on.
She might not have realized it, but in telling me that story, even though I wasn't personally in the car, I learned from it.
I'm glad nobody told us what to expect. This path is surprisingly okay with me.
You Got THIS
It's all a mess.
I have to mail out the documents to prove who I used to be and who I currently am, just because my son's birth certificate arrived with a typo. At least it conveniently arrived with a letter acknowledging the typo and the steps I need to take to fix it.
I need to bang my head against a wall.
I need to call our insurance to inquire which local dentist offices accept our insurance because I need to take care of myself too. That's a hard thing to remember. And after that, I will find an eye doctor. I really can't tell if my eyes are just tired all the time, or bloodshot from crying, or what, but I should get those things checked out.
I have to call the social worker and find a way to get Son signed up for a disability program. I also have to ask her if I can keep getting vouchers for $5 off my meals from cafeteria since I am still a pumping mom. Trust me, I am not starving in the hospital, and all the snacks from friends and family are hugely appreciated, but surviving on lemon bars and mac & cheese packets are not gonna help with losing weight.
These days, sometimes even something as simple as a $3 cafeteria salad is a huge treat to myself. And honestly, sometimes I don't even feel I am deserving of that. In a sit down conversation with the geneticist, while talking about what might "be wrong" with my baby, I was entirely honest; because I've always felt this was my fault, and I was prepared for her to tell me, "Yes, Son's condition was YOUR fault."
I told her I didn't know I was pregnant until about 6 weeks in (I somehow felt pregnant, but the tests kept saying negative).
I told her I drank alcohol during that time.
I told her I cleaned the chicken coop just weeks before his birth and fell hard on my belly.
I told her I played bingo in a smokey casino.
I told her that my seat belt had been yanked too tight, and that I'd hit the shopping cart when a wheel jammed, or anything and everything that could somehow make this my fault.
She told me, "No, his defect was NOT YOUR FAULT. It's chromosomal."
Yet I still don't know how to get past this feeling of guilt. Babies don't just have these issues! And it's not fair my son to get played these cards!
*bangs head against wall again*
I need to work on myself a bit. And I am about to write another post but it's on an entirely different subject so I'd like to keep them separate.
And no joke, there is a man sitting on the computer RIGHT next to me, LITERALLY 10 inches from me, and he is jamming to sound track of Beauty and the Beast.
*bangs head against wall again*
I have to mail out the documents to prove who I used to be and who I currently am, just because my son's birth certificate arrived with a typo. At least it conveniently arrived with a letter acknowledging the typo and the steps I need to take to fix it.
I need to bang my head against a wall.
I need to call our insurance to inquire which local dentist offices accept our insurance because I need to take care of myself too. That's a hard thing to remember. And after that, I will find an eye doctor. I really can't tell if my eyes are just tired all the time, or bloodshot from crying, or what, but I should get those things checked out.
I have to call the social worker and find a way to get Son signed up for a disability program. I also have to ask her if I can keep getting vouchers for $5 off my meals from cafeteria since I am still a pumping mom. Trust me, I am not starving in the hospital, and all the snacks from friends and family are hugely appreciated, but surviving on lemon bars and mac & cheese packets are not gonna help with losing weight.
These days, sometimes even something as simple as a $3 cafeteria salad is a huge treat to myself. And honestly, sometimes I don't even feel I am deserving of that. In a sit down conversation with the geneticist, while talking about what might "be wrong" with my baby, I was entirely honest; because I've always felt this was my fault, and I was prepared for her to tell me, "Yes, Son's condition was YOUR fault."
I told her I didn't know I was pregnant until about 6 weeks in (I somehow felt pregnant, but the tests kept saying negative).
I told her I drank alcohol during that time.
I told her I cleaned the chicken coop just weeks before his birth and fell hard on my belly.
I told her I played bingo in a smokey casino.
I told her that my seat belt had been yanked too tight, and that I'd hit the shopping cart when a wheel jammed, or anything and everything that could somehow make this my fault.
She told me, "No, his defect was NOT YOUR FAULT. It's chromosomal."
Yet I still don't know how to get past this feeling of guilt. Babies don't just have these issues! And it's not fair my son to get played these cards!
*bangs head against wall again*
I need to work on myself a bit. And I am about to write another post but it's on an entirely different subject so I'd like to keep them separate.
And no joke, there is a man sitting on the computer RIGHT next to me, LITERALLY 10 inches from me, and he is jamming to sound track of Beauty and the Beast.
*bangs head against wall again*
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Hey! I'm just as bad as you!
I made an interesting observation and felt like sharing.
We've been moved around between three different parental sleeper units at the hospital. I mentioned it on facebook, but not here. I always leave the door cracked, if not wide open, while I sit on the floor and Dan sits on the small bed. I'm lying to myself believing that I'm inviting fresh air in, but really, I just need it to feel less like the closed-box-coffin that it is.
I could never understand why people would constantly (about 4 times daily) feel the need to cruise over to our door and push it. I joked with Dan, "What do they expect to find? The flippin' Chocolate Factory?!?!" I was even more baffled because our door was the very last one at the end of a dead end hallway, so these obnoxious people had to intentionally go out of their way to push my door.
Well, then something interesting happened.
Dan and I both went to the bathroom at the same time. On my solo trip back, I saw a cracked door.
I instinctively and immediately felt the serious urge to push it open. Primitive curiosity made me, for a brief second, wonder what was behind that door, even though I already knew. I've already slept in that room.
I resisted the urge and went to our room.
Dan returns moments later and says, "Weird; I saw an open door and really wanted to push it."
There's no explanation for this strange phenomena, but it exists solely at Children's and it's contagious.
We've been moved around between three different parental sleeper units at the hospital. I mentioned it on facebook, but not here. I always leave the door cracked, if not wide open, while I sit on the floor and Dan sits on the small bed. I'm lying to myself believing that I'm inviting fresh air in, but really, I just need it to feel less like the closed-box-coffin that it is.
I could never understand why people would constantly (about 4 times daily) feel the need to cruise over to our door and push it. I joked with Dan, "What do they expect to find? The flippin' Chocolate Factory?!?!" I was even more baffled because our door was the very last one at the end of a dead end hallway, so these obnoxious people had to intentionally go out of their way to push my door.
Well, then something interesting happened.
Dan and I both went to the bathroom at the same time. On my solo trip back, I saw a cracked door.
I instinctively and immediately felt the serious urge to push it open. Primitive curiosity made me, for a brief second, wonder what was behind that door, even though I already knew. I've already slept in that room.
I resisted the urge and went to our room.
Dan returns moments later and says, "Weird; I saw an open door and really wanted to push it."
There's no explanation for this strange phenomena, but it exists solely at Children's and it's contagious.
Friday, January 18, 2013
FUCK
What a day... What a day... What a shitty day.
There are no words to explain how much my grandpa meant to me. People's grandparents die all the time and they're just like, "Eh, whatev, have to go to a funeral today, no big deal. "
Huge deal for me. I have no extended family on my mom's side besides him. Now her entire family line is gone. GONE.
Everyone is dead. I have no aunts, no uncles, no cousins, and no grandparents from mom's side to introduce my baby to. Dan reassures me by saying that everything's okay because now it will just start with us.
And it will be okay, because we always find a way to make any crappy situation okay.
But you know what's not okay? The squatters in my grandpa's house. I was cordial with them long enough to get down to Oregon and retrieve Grandpa's dog.
We got the dog but the rest of the visit didn't go so well. My grandpa had a lot of very special things in his locked hutch, yet it was very baren by the time we got there. Those items would have been the only family heirlooms in existance that I could someday hand down to my son.
Well, I got mad. I got real mad. We drove 7 hours there and I was just too exhausted to throw a fit at the house in Oregon.
I thought about it for awhile.
I planned out the conversation in my head.
I called Patty and after she said "Hi!", I told her, "You will listen, and you will be quiet until I say it's okay to talk. YOU WILL produce a box of my grandpa's missing things, and you WILL have it ready for my brother to pick up on Friday at 5pm."
She denied knowing what I was referring to.
She said, "Your husband stole some of our stuff TOO!"
Choose your words wisely, Bitch. I swear, this woman incriminates herself every time she opens her mouth.
My grandpa died 6 days before Robert was born.
She called to say things along the lines of, "Oh yay! We showed up right after the paramedics left and we're so lucky they left the door unlocked!"
Then she calls again about a week later saying she'll have to start selling my grandpa's things if I don't immediately send her $500 for the monthly lot rent. Um, excuse me? Fuck yourself.
Then oh wow, how weird, things are missing from the hutch! I call her up, admittedly crazy after we'd gotten home and I had time to sleep and process things. I tell her that Tim has photos of everything in the hutch and that everything needs to show back up pretty damn quick.
She says, "Well, which ones are you looking for?"
Ha, Okay, Patty, How about fucking ALL of them! Any of them. Every single piece of anything that your pathetic ass stole from my family!
So now to get down to the point of my story.
My grandpa's will specifically states "I leave my dog Tinkerbell to my grandaughter Jacee C*******".
But I received a call today to inform me that there is a warrant for my arrest in Oregon because this stupid bitch Patty called the cops and reported that I showed up at HER HOUSE and stole HER DOG.
Awesome. Let's just add one more stupid fucking thing to the giant heaping plate of awesomeness that I have to deal with at this time.
There are no words to explain how much my grandpa meant to me. People's grandparents die all the time and they're just like, "Eh, whatev, have to go to a funeral today, no big deal. "
Huge deal for me. I have no extended family on my mom's side besides him. Now her entire family line is gone. GONE.
Everyone is dead. I have no aunts, no uncles, no cousins, and no grandparents from mom's side to introduce my baby to. Dan reassures me by saying that everything's okay because now it will just start with us.
And it will be okay, because we always find a way to make any crappy situation okay.
But you know what's not okay? The squatters in my grandpa's house. I was cordial with them long enough to get down to Oregon and retrieve Grandpa's dog.
We got the dog but the rest of the visit didn't go so well. My grandpa had a lot of very special things in his locked hutch, yet it was very baren by the time we got there. Those items would have been the only family heirlooms in existance that I could someday hand down to my son.
Well, I got mad. I got real mad. We drove 7 hours there and I was just too exhausted to throw a fit at the house in Oregon.
I thought about it for awhile.
I planned out the conversation in my head.
I called Patty and after she said "Hi!", I told her, "You will listen, and you will be quiet until I say it's okay to talk. YOU WILL produce a box of my grandpa's missing things, and you WILL have it ready for my brother to pick up on Friday at 5pm."
She denied knowing what I was referring to.
She said, "Your husband stole some of our stuff TOO!"
Choose your words wisely, Bitch. I swear, this woman incriminates herself every time she opens her mouth.
My grandpa died 6 days before Robert was born.
She called to say things along the lines of, "Oh yay! We showed up right after the paramedics left and we're so lucky they left the door unlocked!"
Then she calls again about a week later saying she'll have to start selling my grandpa's things if I don't immediately send her $500 for the monthly lot rent. Um, excuse me? Fuck yourself.
Then oh wow, how weird, things are missing from the hutch! I call her up, admittedly crazy after we'd gotten home and I had time to sleep and process things. I tell her that Tim has photos of everything in the hutch and that everything needs to show back up pretty damn quick.
She says, "Well, which ones are you looking for?"
Ha, Okay, Patty, How about fucking ALL of them! Any of them. Every single piece of anything that your pathetic ass stole from my family!
So now to get down to the point of my story.
My grandpa's will specifically states "I leave my dog Tinkerbell to my grandaughter Jacee C*******".
But I received a call today to inform me that there is a warrant for my arrest in Oregon because this stupid bitch Patty called the cops and reported that I showed up at HER HOUSE and stole HER DOG.
Awesome. Let's just add one more stupid fucking thing to the giant heaping plate of awesomeness that I have to deal with at this time.
Thank you.
I just posted this on my facebook but want to remember it so it is now here as well.
My faith in humanity has been restored. Son is of course priority, but it would definitely devastate me to return home to a coop full of dead chickens. We searched online for a very specific product for 'the girls' because we have to quickly run home tomorrow. Found a local mom and pop style shop that had what we wanted. Super friendly people. Very talkative. Asked if we are from around here and we explained that we live over an hour away but are currently living at the hospital because of our month old baby. She went back to the shelf and grabbed two items that I'd briefly carried around, but put back after considering our budget and just gave them to me. Kissed me on the cheek twice and hugged me while I cried. So rare to see someone willing to show kindness to a stranger
My faith in humanity has been restored. Son is of course priority, but it would definitely devastate me to return home to a coop full of dead chickens. We searched online for a very specific product for 'the girls' because we have to quickly run home tomorrow. Found a local mom and pop style shop that had what we wanted. Super friendly people. Very talkative. Asked if we are from around here and we explained that we live over an hour away but are currently living at the hospital because of our month old baby. She went back to the shelf and grabbed two items that I'd briefly carried around, but put back after considering our budget and just gave them to me. Kissed me on the cheek twice and hugged me while I cried. So rare to see someone willing to show kindness to a stranger
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Word of the Day
Seriously?
Like really, seriously?
Did you seriously wake up today with desires of seriously being punched in the face? Or seriously doused in gasoline and set on fire?
Or do you just seriously like my eyes piercing through your entire being and condemning your existance to hell while you talk to me about what is "wrong" with my baby.
Seriously, check yourself. And don't ever try to fix something that's not broken.
Do not jump a fence if you aren't willing to handle what's on the other side. And SERIOUSLY, do not poke this mama bear again unless you're ready for all mother fucking hell to break loose.
I don't care that his toes overlap, or that his nipples are far apart, or that there's something different (which I don't see) about his weiner, or that his eyes are slanty, or his ears hang lower than they should.
I am seriously taking him out of here after one full week of breathing on his own.
And then you can seriously fuck yourself.
And then I will seriously work on my language skills.
Like really, seriously?
Did you seriously wake up today with desires of seriously being punched in the face? Or seriously doused in gasoline and set on fire?
Or do you just seriously like my eyes piercing through your entire being and condemning your existance to hell while you talk to me about what is "wrong" with my baby.
Seriously, check yourself. And don't ever try to fix something that's not broken.
Do not jump a fence if you aren't willing to handle what's on the other side. And SERIOUSLY, do not poke this mama bear again unless you're ready for all mother fucking hell to break loose.
I don't care that his toes overlap, or that his nipples are far apart, or that there's something different (which I don't see) about his weiner, or that his eyes are slanty, or his ears hang lower than they should.
I am seriously taking him out of here after one full week of breathing on his own.
And then you can seriously fuck yourself.
And then I will seriously work on my language skills.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
That Day
I enjoy reading and re-reading my old posts and am always happy that I kept a log of where I've been in life. Happy or sad, whether I'm embarrassed for myself or doing the happy dance, I love knowing that you will always know the real me. I can be open and honest with you and with myself.
I'm glad I kept a record to show even just myself how much I've grown since 2007. An no, I'm not referring to the fact that I dyed my hair brown, gained 80 pounds, or expanded my usage of vulgar language.
Yet now, here I am, 2:30am at Children's hospital, 7 years since my first post. I'd like to think I have learned something.
My sweet son is sleeping downstairs and my husband is enjoying his "breakfast beer" in front of the tv. As crappy as our situation is living at the hospital, I am happiest here.
There are a ton of things I want to forget. I wish I could forget this entire hospital situation; pretend we went home as a family after my recovery time, and that would be that.
But after reflecting on how much I enjoy reading my history and the road I've traveled, I've decided there are feelings I want to remember and reflect on someday, because SOMEDAY, I will be able to look back and think, "Wow, Jacee, you did it. You did what a lot of people probably couldn't do and you conquered the shit out of it!"
Someday.
But for now, there's today, and there's THAT day. I'd love to pretend it never happened but it did, and I want to remember it.
Cousin Tina called us at some time (as I keep saying, there is no such thing as time here, it could have been midnight or 3pm for all I know. There are more important things to keep track of.)
Son, I was so proud of you for making it through the 4th extubation, but your precious little body told us it wasn't quite ready for it. Tina called us because the doctors said, "You should call the parents."
Son, I watched you turn the most deathly shade of white possible. I squeezed Dan and Tina's hands and just cried. They rubbed my back but there's no comfort for that kind of fear. I thought at any point I was watching your last breath.
Son, I want you to know that your cousin Tina saved your life. She knew something was wrong before the nurse even acknowledged you.
Son, you better always be good to your cousin and thank her for every second that you are able to enjoy fresh air filling your lungs.
You WILL love the shit out of her.
You WILL send her flowers on her birthday.
You WILL make pretty drawings for her fridge and you WILL always hug and thank her for your life.
I'm glad I kept a record to show even just myself how much I've grown since 2007. An no, I'm not referring to the fact that I dyed my hair brown, gained 80 pounds, or expanded my usage of vulgar language.
Yet now, here I am, 2:30am at Children's hospital, 7 years since my first post. I'd like to think I have learned something.
My sweet son is sleeping downstairs and my husband is enjoying his "breakfast beer" in front of the tv. As crappy as our situation is living at the hospital, I am happiest here.
There are a ton of things I want to forget. I wish I could forget this entire hospital situation; pretend we went home as a family after my recovery time, and that would be that.
But after reflecting on how much I enjoy reading my history and the road I've traveled, I've decided there are feelings I want to remember and reflect on someday, because SOMEDAY, I will be able to look back and think, "Wow, Jacee, you did it. You did what a lot of people probably couldn't do and you conquered the shit out of it!"
Someday.
But for now, there's today, and there's THAT day. I'd love to pretend it never happened but it did, and I want to remember it.
Cousin Tina called us at some time (as I keep saying, there is no such thing as time here, it could have been midnight or 3pm for all I know. There are more important things to keep track of.)
Son, I was so proud of you for making it through the 4th extubation, but your precious little body told us it wasn't quite ready for it. Tina called us because the doctors said, "You should call the parents."
Son, I watched you turn the most deathly shade of white possible. I squeezed Dan and Tina's hands and just cried. They rubbed my back but there's no comfort for that kind of fear. I thought at any point I was watching your last breath.
Son, I want you to know that your cousin Tina saved your life. She knew something was wrong before the nurse even acknowledged you.
Son, you better always be good to your cousin and thank her for every second that you are able to enjoy fresh air filling your lungs.
You WILL love the shit out of her.
You WILL send her flowers on her birthday.
You WILL make pretty drawings for her fridge and you WILL always hug and thank her for your life.
Monday, January 14, 2013
I love you.
I love you because I ask you to go downstairs to fill up the pink bucket with ice to keep my breast milk chilled, yet you somehow disappear for 15 minutes and return with no ice, a bewildered look, and no idea why you left our room in the first place.
I love you because you aren't embarrassed by breast milk.
I love you because I never feel alone.
I love you because when you ask me, "Are you okay?", you actually show real concern in your eyes, and I know you are one of the few that genuinely care.
I love you because you let me sleep, and when I wake up, briefly wondering where you are, I know I can always find you downstairs by our son's bedside.
I love you because after seeing me crying, helplessly flopping around after my c-section, you asked if I needed help to change my pad.
I love you because I've watched you grow into a man.
Admittedly, four years ago, I had my doubts, but you stepped up. Gone are the days of parties, karaoke, throwing candy at strangers, buying plastic kiddie pools from K-Mart and asking the staff to please find a bag for this just so we can watch them grow more and more confused, or us standing on the roof with an 18-pack, watching the sun come up while the waving at the kids walking to the bus stop. No more hookah bars or dragging you through the smokey casino. No more getting kicked out of bars at closing or driving to Oregon just to buy Everclear.
Now it's you, me, AND Son.
I love you because we grew up together, and we are figuring this out together.
I love you because you talk about needing to know that you can protect me and Son.
I love you because you gave me a son.
I love you because I know you love me too, and that is a great feeling.
I love you because you aren't embarrassed by breast milk.
I love you because I never feel alone.
I love you because when you ask me, "Are you okay?", you actually show real concern in your eyes, and I know you are one of the few that genuinely care.
I love you because you let me sleep, and when I wake up, briefly wondering where you are, I know I can always find you downstairs by our son's bedside.
I love you because after seeing me crying, helplessly flopping around after my c-section, you asked if I needed help to change my pad.
I love you because I've watched you grow into a man.
Admittedly, four years ago, I had my doubts, but you stepped up. Gone are the days of parties, karaoke, throwing candy at strangers, buying plastic kiddie pools from K-Mart and asking the staff to please find a bag for this just so we can watch them grow more and more confused, or us standing on the roof with an 18-pack, watching the sun come up while the waving at the kids walking to the bus stop. No more hookah bars or dragging you through the smokey casino. No more getting kicked out of bars at closing or driving to Oregon just to buy Everclear.
Now it's you, me, AND Son.
I love you because we grew up together, and we are figuring this out together.
I love you because you talk about needing to know that you can protect me and Son.
I love you because you gave me a son.
I love you because I know you love me too, and that is a great feeling.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
You Were Always On My Mind
I was in the hospital from 3/7/12 - 3/14/12.
Don't ask me why because I won't tell you.
On Friday 3/16, Grandpa Floyd called and told me he wasn't feeling too well and that I needed to come to Oregon. I sorted through various Craigslist "rideshare" posts and found one that would work as long as I could get to the halfway point, and then this person would drop me off at the bus station in Albany.
I asked my dad to drive me to Kelso, but horrified that I was accepting a ride to Oregon from a stranger (FYI, this seriously is a standard form of transportation amongst my generation), he said he'd drive me the whole way.
Dan was still at work while I put my plan in motion. I was determined to get to my grandpa.
My husband might just be extremely accustomed to my random quirks and spontaneous ideas, but I'm grateful there were no issues with my need to flea the state.
I told him, "I NEED to go to Oregon NOW.... and I'm actually already on my way down there with my dad."
He said, "Okay Babe, do what you gotta do."
I left all the bills ready to be sent out, pinned to the bulletin board with due dates written on the calendar, but I still felt guilty that I'd left the weight of our household on Dan while I selfishly left to see my grandpa.
I told Dan, "I have to do this, and I AM doing this. Not sure when I'll be back, but what would you give to spend one more week with your grandpa?"
And he said, "Anything."
Now my grandpa is gone, and I'm glad I left my own life for 10 days last March to be with him. I no longer feel selfish.
Don't ask me why because I won't tell you.
On Friday 3/16, Grandpa Floyd called and told me he wasn't feeling too well and that I needed to come to Oregon. I sorted through various Craigslist "rideshare" posts and found one that would work as long as I could get to the halfway point, and then this person would drop me off at the bus station in Albany.
I asked my dad to drive me to Kelso, but horrified that I was accepting a ride to Oregon from a stranger (FYI, this seriously is a standard form of transportation amongst my generation), he said he'd drive me the whole way.
Dan was still at work while I put my plan in motion. I was determined to get to my grandpa.
My husband might just be extremely accustomed to my random quirks and spontaneous ideas, but I'm grateful there were no issues with my need to flea the state.
I told him, "I NEED to go to Oregon NOW.... and I'm actually already on my way down there with my dad."
He said, "Okay Babe, do what you gotta do."
I left all the bills ready to be sent out, pinned to the bulletin board with due dates written on the calendar, but I still felt guilty that I'd left the weight of our household on Dan while I selfishly left to see my grandpa.
I told Dan, "I have to do this, and I AM doing this. Not sure when I'll be back, but what would you give to spend one more week with your grandpa?"
And he said, "Anything."
Now my grandpa is gone, and I'm glad I left my own life for 10 days last March to be with him. I no longer feel selfish.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
FYI
TIP: If you ever find yourself living in a hospital with your child, just plan on carrying a bag. Reuseable shopping bags work the best for this purpose.
Otherwise, your hands will fill up quickly and you'll wonder how you've managed to acquire so much stuff.
Daily care reports, interesting magazine articles in the family area, business cards from specialists and social workers, packets of ketchup that were left over from someone's meal (the drawer labeled "condiments" is actually only full of tea, coffee, and pepper packets), water bottle, soda, your snack, tablet, tablet charger and phone charger, notebook for random stuff the nurses and doctors tell you about your baby, and even though you might have run out of questions on the spot, you'll need to look it up later and you'll most definitely forget the name of disorder/procedure/some-weird-medical-thing-you've-never-heard-of.
P.S. I read through my posts since being here. Not too impressed. Super choppy and full of typos, but for some reason I can't edit on the hospital computers.
Even the way I space thoughts affect how I want it to be read. I write like I talk, and it really frustrates me that I am unable to go back and make it easier to hear what I'm saying.
Sorry for making you wince with the poor read.
Otherwise, your hands will fill up quickly and you'll wonder how you've managed to acquire so much stuff.
Daily care reports, interesting magazine articles in the family area, business cards from specialists and social workers, packets of ketchup that were left over from someone's meal (the drawer labeled "condiments" is actually only full of tea, coffee, and pepper packets), water bottle, soda, your snack, tablet, tablet charger and phone charger, notebook for random stuff the nurses and doctors tell you about your baby, and even though you might have run out of questions on the spot, you'll need to look it up later and you'll most definitely forget the name of disorder/procedure/some-weird-medical-thing-you've-never-heard-of.
P.S. I read through my posts since being here. Not too impressed. Super choppy and full of typos, but for some reason I can't edit on the hospital computers.
Even the way I space thoughts affect how I want it to be read. I write like I talk, and it really frustrates me that I am unable to go back and make it easier to hear what I'm saying.
Sorry for making you wince with the poor read.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Take a Hug For the Road
We meet new people everyday during our hospital stay with Son.
Trust me on this one: it could be worse. Much, much worse.
We are very lucky.
Trust me on this one: it could be worse. Much, much worse.
We are very lucky.
Monday, January 7, 2013
It's whatev.
My pregnancy with Son was terrible. TERRIBLE. I told Dan, along with anyone that would listen, that I was never ever carrying a baby again (NEVER!).
It was my resolution that we'd have foster kids, hopefully around Son's age as he grows, one at a time until a specific one just really fits with us, then we'd adopt.
It was our thought that having "friends" circulate through our house would teach Son to share, how to not be egocentric, teach him to interact with different kinds of people and be wiser everytime someone came or went.
I went to my doctor today to check on my incision. I am physically 100% fine, besides some vertigo, but her advice is met with mixed emotions...
Today my doctor literally advised me not to have another child. Any future children are extremely likely to have whatever chromosomal defect Son has. We still don't know what IT is, but IT sucks.
Just in case you are in the mood for a little "TMI", it was still a miracle that I even conceived. We threw caution to the wind for years believing I was infertile. Then only 8 months after our wedding, the tests were positive. We were going to be parents.
Just sucks knowing I've been advised against giving him natural siblings.
It was my resolution that we'd have foster kids, hopefully around Son's age as he grows, one at a time until a specific one just really fits with us, then we'd adopt.
It was our thought that having "friends" circulate through our house would teach Son to share, how to not be egocentric, teach him to interact with different kinds of people and be wiser everytime someone came or went.
I went to my doctor today to check on my incision. I am physically 100% fine, besides some vertigo, but her advice is met with mixed emotions...
Today my doctor literally advised me not to have another child. Any future children are extremely likely to have whatever chromosomal defect Son has. We still don't know what IT is, but IT sucks.
Just in case you are in the mood for a little "TMI", it was still a miracle that I even conceived. We threw caution to the wind for years believing I was infertile. Then only 8 months after our wedding, the tests were positive. We were going to be parents.
Just sucks knowing I've been advised against giving him natural siblings.
Animals.
There is no such thing as time Here.
Thanks, Life.
Just appointments and hopes.
So anyways, we went home "today". But technically it isn't today anymore since it's already 2:30am on the new today. Technically we went home yesterday, but it doesn't feel right saying that since we haven't had a night's sleep and welcomed the new day.
Anywho, we were home only to do laundry, find clothes that fit me so I don't feel like shit all the time in saggy pants, clean the chicken coop and collect eggs.
I brought a big bucket into the chicken coop thinking we'd have at least a dozen eggs.
Nope.
Only four eggs. In our 4-5 day absence, they have only laid four eggs. Even my birds are hurting from us being gone.
I made spaghetti just for them. Fed them leftovers that had been forgotten in the fridge and threw some fruit out for them to peck at.
Whether they actually eat it or not, at least they have something new to look at.
I know what it feels like to be stuck in the same environment 24/7 with nothing new or intriguing.
My heart aches for the chickens. Even a stupid bird's body is affected when she feels alone.
I pet the cats. I hugged the cats. I held them until they get away by almost scratching me.
They've been peeing on the bathroom rugs :(
Luckily I have enough time to wash and dry the rugs during this home visit. They haven't been lacking food or water at all thanks to a friend staying at our house, but through the abnormal behaviour, I feel they've been missing us as well.
I asked a nurse some medical question about long-term effects on Son, and while not directly answering my specific question, she said that babies in long term care at hospitals are likely to have emotional / mental issues. Feeling alone is hard for any living being.
Please, Son, don't ever doubt you are loved.
Please, Chickens, don't ever doubt you are loved.
Please, Kitties, don't ever doubt you are loved.
Please, Jade, don't ever doubt you are loved.
My absence at one point or another does not ever mean you are alone.
Son, I will come back to you and read you Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? until the pages fall off. One thing you should always know to be true, I would give my last breath for you to keep yours and I will always come back for you.
I have so much love for anything with a beating heart, but I am only one person, and I know my son is my priority, but sometimes I just need to make sure even a chicken knows it's cared for.
Thanks, Life.
Just appointments and hopes.
So anyways, we went home "today". But technically it isn't today anymore since it's already 2:30am on the new today. Technically we went home yesterday, but it doesn't feel right saying that since we haven't had a night's sleep and welcomed the new day.
Anywho, we were home only to do laundry, find clothes that fit me so I don't feel like shit all the time in saggy pants, clean the chicken coop and collect eggs.
I brought a big bucket into the chicken coop thinking we'd have at least a dozen eggs.
Nope.
Only four eggs. In our 4-5 day absence, they have only laid four eggs. Even my birds are hurting from us being gone.
I made spaghetti just for them. Fed them leftovers that had been forgotten in the fridge and threw some fruit out for them to peck at.
Whether they actually eat it or not, at least they have something new to look at.
I know what it feels like to be stuck in the same environment 24/7 with nothing new or intriguing.
My heart aches for the chickens. Even a stupid bird's body is affected when she feels alone.
I pet the cats. I hugged the cats. I held them until they get away by almost scratching me.
They've been peeing on the bathroom rugs :(
Luckily I have enough time to wash and dry the rugs during this home visit. They haven't been lacking food or water at all thanks to a friend staying at our house, but through the abnormal behaviour, I feel they've been missing us as well.
I asked a nurse some medical question about long-term effects on Son, and while not directly answering my specific question, she said that babies in long term care at hospitals are likely to have emotional / mental issues. Feeling alone is hard for any living being.
Please, Son, don't ever doubt you are loved.
Please, Chickens, don't ever doubt you are loved.
Please, Kitties, don't ever doubt you are loved.
Please, Jade, don't ever doubt you are loved.
My absence at one point or another does not ever mean you are alone.
Son, I will come back to you and read you Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? until the pages fall off. One thing you should always know to be true, I would give my last breath for you to keep yours and I will always come back for you.
I have so much love for anything with a beating heart, but I am only one person, and I know my son is my priority, but sometimes I just need to make sure even a chicken knows it's cared for.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Let's talk numbers
26 ceiling tiles.
4 flourescent ceiling lights.
1 sprinkler.
1 fire alarm.
1 thing that looked like a red plastic light in case of emergency....?
That's all I had to focus on for 4 hours after your birth, not even knowing if you'd survived the trauma of us separating.
But hey, for the sake of keeping the record straight, here are some other numbers.
1. Amount of times I've rode in an ambulance, all thanks to you Little Man :) Gonna be paying that shit off until you graduate high school.
2: Amount of times my stomach was brutally smashed on to force my uterus to drain (after your birth) while I was still numb. There were roughly 20 more painful smashes after feeling slowly returned to my body. Holy Shit, OW.
3. THREE DAYS. THREE WHOLE MOTHER FUCKING DAYS. THREE BRUTALLY LONG DAYS before your daddy was allowed to get me out of UW so I could FINALLY see your precious face. I should've been up and twirling a baton within hours of your birth.
4. Amount of minutes it took my mom on the phone to believe me that I was pregnant. I've called her April 1st every year for yearsss to pull that prank on her, and when I called her mid April of 2012, she thought I was doing it again, until I started crying.
5. Five different doctors/hospitals. Goodness, Son, you sure did require a lot of coordinating to get here!
6. Six weeks before an ultrasound tech proved your existance, and printed out photos for me to send to Grandpa Floyd.
7. Seven positive pregnancy tests before I believed this was real.
8. Eight times that Children's Hospital literally told me to not be in labor.
9. Nine months. Nine whole months that you and I were fused as one.
234972394729879613249: Amount of times I would go through it all again if it meant you'd come home safely.
4 flourescent ceiling lights.
1 sprinkler.
1 fire alarm.
1 thing that looked like a red plastic light in case of emergency....?
That's all I had to focus on for 4 hours after your birth, not even knowing if you'd survived the trauma of us separating.
But hey, for the sake of keeping the record straight, here are some other numbers.
1. Amount of times I've rode in an ambulance, all thanks to you Little Man :) Gonna be paying that shit off until you graduate high school.
2: Amount of times my stomach was brutally smashed on to force my uterus to drain (after your birth) while I was still numb. There were roughly 20 more painful smashes after feeling slowly returned to my body. Holy Shit, OW.
3. THREE DAYS. THREE WHOLE MOTHER FUCKING DAYS. THREE BRUTALLY LONG DAYS before your daddy was allowed to get me out of UW so I could FINALLY see your precious face. I should've been up and twirling a baton within hours of your birth.
4. Amount of minutes it took my mom on the phone to believe me that I was pregnant. I've called her April 1st every year for yearsss to pull that prank on her, and when I called her mid April of 2012, she thought I was doing it again, until I started crying.
5. Five different doctors/hospitals. Goodness, Son, you sure did require a lot of coordinating to get here!
6. Six weeks before an ultrasound tech proved your existance, and printed out photos for me to send to Grandpa Floyd.
7. Seven positive pregnancy tests before I believed this was real.
8. Eight times that Children's Hospital literally told me to not be in labor.
9. Nine months. Nine whole months that you and I were fused as one.
234972394729879613249: Amount of times I would go through it all again if it meant you'd come home safely.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Just Keep Smiling
Some people don't know how to cope. Some people don't know how to comfort. I am a lot of both right now.
I don't know how to comfort my baby in the hospital. I can only hold his sweet little hand and hope he knows it's mommy singing to him.
I don't know how to comfort my husband who doesn't like to talk about feelings, and always just says, "I'm okay," with a forced smile.
My body is still aching because it knows the pain of missing a baby, and it's easy for me to forget that I'm not the only one missing OUR baby.
One thing I will always remember from this experience: sometimes the best way to comfort someone isn't to give them a shoulder hug and say it'll all be okay. For me, at least, I don't need someone to wipe away my tears and feed me the generic bullshit. I need to hear that it's okay to hurt, and it's okay to cry because that's my release, and our situation just plain sucks.
So ya know what, Jacee, you cry your damn eyes out, and that is OKAY. Nobody expects you to be made of stone.
I don't know how to comfort my baby in the hospital. I can only hold his sweet little hand and hope he knows it's mommy singing to him.
I don't know how to comfort my husband who doesn't like to talk about feelings, and always just says, "I'm okay," with a forced smile.
My body is still aching because it knows the pain of missing a baby, and it's easy for me to forget that I'm not the only one missing OUR baby.
One thing I will always remember from this experience: sometimes the best way to comfort someone isn't to give them a shoulder hug and say it'll all be okay. For me, at least, I don't need someone to wipe away my tears and feed me the generic bullshit. I need to hear that it's okay to hurt, and it's okay to cry because that's my release, and our situation just plain sucks.
So ya know what, Jacee, you cry your damn eyes out, and that is OKAY. Nobody expects you to be made of stone.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Comical Relief
I love my husband because he's the only person I've ever met that can start a sentence with, "So I watched a very enlightening cartoon..." and be entirely serious.
What To Do When You Are Out of Tears
You feed the chickens.
You collect the eggs.
You make your husband breakfast.
You have no energy to eat for yourself so don't even bother cooking extra.
You drain any extra calories your body might have by pumping yourself dry.
You change your pad.
You start the dishwasher.
You start the wash machine.
You curl up on the couch with every centimeter of your being missing your baby.
But there are no healing tears left to release your pain.
You just sit and wait for that inner strength that women are supposed to have to kick in.
You collect the eggs.
You make your husband breakfast.
You have no energy to eat for yourself so don't even bother cooking extra.
You drain any extra calories your body might have by pumping yourself dry.
You change your pad.
You start the dishwasher.
You start the wash machine.
You curl up on the couch with every centimeter of your being missing your baby.
But there are no healing tears left to release your pain.
You just sit and wait for that inner strength that women are supposed to have to kick in.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Dear Son,
I have experienced real fear in my life, the kind of fear that makes you hide under the bed as a young girl, but I have never been so scared as I am now for your well being. I will never explain myself to anyone about the way I handle things.
Your life has changed mine. Your arrival has exposed the rawest, most honest parts of myself that only your daddy knows about.
Son, folks like us weren't exactly blessed with an easy life and a super perfect childhood from the start, but you, babe, are a fighter, like me. You got this. We got this.
My heart aches for you around the clock and a hot shower won't wash away the pain this time. Yup, here I am, my bare heart and soul exposed.
Nobody besides your daddy knows I cry every time my body forces me to pump milk. It's against nature and my maternal instinct to hold a machine instead of your sweet, fragile little body.
I'm so grateful we knew you'd have issues before you were born so the hospitals were prepared for your arrival. Children's hospital saved your life.
I labored for days and called the hospital every 2 hours to check if there was a room for you yet. I kept you inside me until we got the green light because we knew you wouldn't be able to breath on your own once the two of us were separated. All I could do was lay in the shower on all fours, crying in absolute agony, hoping the hot water would help my pain. I was determined to keep you safe.
You were 3 days old before I could convince my nurses that I was well enough to leave the UW hospital to join you at Children's. Your dad pushed me in a wheelchair to your bedside so I could finally meet you. I stood up by your bed and just cried. You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
Son, don't ever doubt that you are extremely loved.
Your life has changed mine. Your arrival has exposed the rawest, most honest parts of myself that only your daddy knows about.
Son, folks like us weren't exactly blessed with an easy life and a super perfect childhood from the start, but you, babe, are a fighter, like me. You got this. We got this.
My heart aches for you around the clock and a hot shower won't wash away the pain this time. Yup, here I am, my bare heart and soul exposed.
Nobody besides your daddy knows I cry every time my body forces me to pump milk. It's against nature and my maternal instinct to hold a machine instead of your sweet, fragile little body.
I'm so grateful we knew you'd have issues before you were born so the hospitals were prepared for your arrival. Children's hospital saved your life.
I labored for days and called the hospital every 2 hours to check if there was a room for you yet. I kept you inside me until we got the green light because we knew you wouldn't be able to breath on your own once the two of us were separated. All I could do was lay in the shower on all fours, crying in absolute agony, hoping the hot water would help my pain. I was determined to keep you safe.
You were 3 days old before I could convince my nurses that I was well enough to leave the UW hospital to join you at Children's. Your dad pushed me in a wheelchair to your bedside so I could finally meet you. I stood up by your bed and just cried. You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
Son, don't ever doubt that you are extremely loved.
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