Mother’s Day Weekend with a Trip to the ER
I don’t really know how to describe this last weekend. Roller Coaster is, frankly, an injustice. It was much more than that. Mother’s Day was amazing. Full of family, good food and lots of laughter and play with the kids. I got a beautiful basket of flowers (that I really hope I remember to water!) and most importantly lots of hugs and kisses from my Ava.
The day before Mother’s Day? Day. From. Hell. No hyperbole. I’ve been through some truly awful things in my life. Nothing, and I mean nothing compared to this.
I don’t know how else to tell you except to start at the beginning. I hope that writing this all out, will somehow help me put it behind me. At least, start to. The day started off great. Ava and I spent a couple hours in the kitchen. We baked a cake and prepped pasta salad for dinner that night and the next. (our job was to bring the pasta for the Mother’s Day dinner). We were looking forward to her best friend Ella, and her mom, Shiela, a dear friend of mine coming over that afternoon. We planned a trip to the park and then back to our place for burgers on the grill.
Mid morning we set off to hit up a couple of thrift stores and then have lunch. Ava wanted to go to Dairy Queen, and since it was a pretty warm day, I had no problem agreeing. We ordered our food and sat down to wait. After a minute or so, Ava announced she needed to use the bathroom. So I took her back, and here’s where the fun started. She sat down and immediately began crying that she hurt and couldn’t go potty. She said it burned and hurt really bad. Ok. I immediately suspect a UTI. Problem? It’s Saturday afternoon. No Urgent Care places open. Next stop? ER. Can’t let this go until Monday.
We got checked in and had a pretty short wait considering how many people were there. I explained what was going on to the triage nurse, the next nurse and then the doctor. As I expected they wanted a urine sample. And that my friends is where the ship went off the rails. She tried. Bless her little heart she tried so much, but she couldn’t go. Even after a cup of cranberry juice. The doctor was insistent about getting something. (Please note here that after attempt one, she got a couple of drops out, and we were told, nope, not enough). So in comes two nurses and catheter. Ever had one of those put in? I don’t recommend it. Much less on a not quite four year old.
I had to hold her hands and hold her still while they tried. Three times. After try three, I drew the line. STOP. You’re done hurting my child. I have to write it out here. She screamed at the absolute top of her lungs. Her face and head was beet red. Her whole body shook with pain. And not only was I not stopping them, I was holding her down while they did it.
I know it had to be done. I know they had to try. I know she had to be seen to get meds so that we could kill the infection. I KNOW this. But I cannot get those images of her screaming in pain out of my head.
I still haven’t really let myself have “breakdown” over it. I’m afraid to. I’m afraid I’ll start crying and never stop.
At this point the doctor came back in and said she couldn’t diagnose her without something. I told her right then and there they weren’t laying another hand on my daughter. She looked at the “sample” Ava was able to squeeze out earlier and said that was enough to culture at least. At that point I wanted to slap the shit out of pretty much every person there. They really didn’t need to put Ava through that. Other than being money hungry, test running jackasses.
See I know a thing or two about UTIs. I also know that almost always a broad spectrum antibiotic will take them out. I also know that getting a successful result on a culture is only about 50%.
The doctor left and a nurse came back in asking if we needed anything. I said other than a prescription and our discharge papers, no we didn’t. About 15 minutes later we got both of those.
By that time my ex had arrived and we all went back to Dairy Queen and had an actual meal. Then we went to Walmart to fill the prescription and, as I put it, buy the poor kid any damn thing she wanted.
And what she wanted, as it turned out was this: 
She’s talked about it a few times since. The nurse kept telling me “Oh, she won’t remember.” Uh no, she remembers everything. Like the house we moved out of a year ago when she wasn’t even three yet. She says she doesn’t like going to the doctor anymore. I’m worried that from now on she’ll make that association.
On the whole, she seems to have moved on. I am trying really hard to do the same. But there is no hurt in the world like your child’s hurt. I’d have taken on any amount of pain to spare her that.
So. That’s how my Mother’s Day weekend went. I really hope yours was awesome.
One Year Later
I moved my last post back to the draft folder. I was hesitant to publish it at all, even privately, and bare myself so completely as to the struggle of emotions.
Those of you who read and as usual, supported me, thank you. Your words mean so much and I feel each one of them as a warm embrace.
The sheer act of writing has brought about some form of catharsis. The emotions have shifted to something different, less intense and not quite as crushing.
Life and the act of living it never ceases to ebb and flow. The waters rush in and bring forth a wave of the unexpected and just as suddenly recede and take with them part of me.
***
I so rarely have time to write in this space now. I thought after the divorce, it would be the opposite.
Work has gotten busier.
Now only having Ava for half the time, I find myself tethered much less to the online world when I’m with her. It’s our time, and it’s precious time. I don’t want her to look back in 20 years and remember me as always on the computer or always checking my phone.
I took a chance and started doing something I enjoy – food blogging. I don’t know where it will lead, if anywhere. But I’m having fun doing it, most of the time, although it does seem to take up time that I used to spend here, writing.
I’ve been working on learning how to use the fancy camera I bought for myself a couple years ago. I would love to be able to take photographs that are frame-worthy, instead of “Oh, dear, I think we’ll just delete that one”.
They say that 40 is when a people really start to know themselves. I’ll be 39 in less than a month, and as I approach that number, I see that there is definitely some truth to that. I think it’s also an age in which we are more easily able to identify the disingenuous in others as well. I see things, and people so much more clearly now than before. Sometimes it comes as a great surprise to know that in which you have counted on was not in fact, what you ever thought it was. Or maybe you did, but you convinced yourself otherwise. It gets harder to lie to one’s self as you age, I think. It’s harder for you brain to play along.
I find I’m much better able to pick my battles. I find myself backing away from things more often, knowing I would be fighting a losing battle.
I rediscovered the pleasure of sleeping alone. At first it was strange, after sharing a bed for 12 years. But after the oddness wore off, I found how much I love it. I can stay up late watching tv in bed, or reading a book. I can toss and turn and not worry that I’ll wake anyone. I don’t have to worry that my body pillow and I are taking up too much room. There is no snoring to keep me awake.
Of course, I enjoy cuddling with Ava on our “sleepover nights”, which happen once a week. It’s nice to be able to reach out and have her hold on to my hand as she sleeps. I’ll savor that for as long as she will let me, for I know the day is coming when even a hug from me will seem “uncool”.
I enjoy a girls’ night out with a friend now and then. Something that I never used to do, but I find now to be immensely fun.
I got on a plane last year for the first time in several years. It was terrifying and thrilling and I can’t wait to do it again.
I discovered the kind of friends that all women should have: honest and steadfast. The kind that will tell you when you’re being a jackass, hold you up when you’re falling down, and find places to bury the bodies. The kind of friends that will be around in 50 years when we’re all hard of hearing and are yelling at each other over the breakfast table at I-Hop.
When you’re alone, especially after a life changing event, it’s almost impossible not to do a lot of navel gazing and introspection. I’m not perfect and a lot of my failures and flaws led me right to where I am today.
I’m getting better and discerning what truly makes me happy and what was just filler for when I wasn’t. Maybe that’s the secret of life.
Facing Fears
Maybe you’ve heard of Operation Eleanor. If you haven’t I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest version: Do something every day for 30 days that scares you. Megan figured November would be a good month, because, hey, 30 days right?
Well, I started mine in October. What can I say, I’m a rebel.
It all started with a glance at the television. An ad for Toy Story 3 on Ice. Ava adores Toy Story. She loves Jesse and Buzz fiercely. I researched ticket prices and found that they weren’t as astronomically high as I feared. I asked some friends about taking Ava, wondering if 3 1/2-ish was too young. I got great feedback that, no, this is the perfect age.
So, I hit purchase.
Now, that is not the scary part. Nor is the fear of emptying my wallet on merchandise. (although, yeah that happened too, and I may be eating Ramen for the rest of the month)
The show was in Portland. At the Rose Garden. On the easternish side of town, which requires crossing the river. ON A BRIDGE. DANGER WILL ROBINSON, DANGER.
Because we all know that bridges are scary, scary death traps. Cars fly off of them daily and every second one collapses and people plunge into icy waters, right? No? You sure? Because that’s what my brain has been signaling to me for 38 years.
It’s not the bridge itself, really. I can do certain bridges without issue, as long as they are not too elevated, or have girders that encase the traffic as it goes across.
It’s the high ones. And Portland has a couple of doozies. Thankfully, this one was not the worst of the bunch, and frankly I’m not sure I could have done that one, even if it was for Ava. I just don’t know. I’ve always had a problem with heights, for as long as I can remember. I don’t even like standing on a chair. My palms get sweaty, my heart races, my legs and feet get tingly. My brain does some odd mixture of shutting down and screaming in blind panic. It’s not a pretty sight. My ex had to pull over on a freeway once, convinced he was going to have to slap me back to reality, ala Cher in Moonstruck.
This bridge had the added features of height, PLUS! an open airy feeling all around. Not a lot was put into vehicle-stopping devices on this sucker.
It didn’t really hit me until after I’d bought the tickets what I’d done. My brain panicked for a bit, trying to figure out a way out of it. A different route over a smaller bridge? Nope, would take too much time. When you’re in the car with a still potty training 3 year old, time is not your friend. Renting a car and driver was out, the expense alone made me never even consider that one. Nobody I could ask to drive us up there, it was too far and the show too long.
Nope, no way out of it. I had to do it. This is the thing about divorce. Before, I could have had my ex do the driving while I sat in the backseat and covered my eyes. Or hunkered down on the floor till it was over.
(yes, I actually did that once-on this bridge)
But being a single parent means that option is gone, and it’s on me to put on my big girl panties and deal.
So I did. I warned one of my best friends that I might be calling her before we crossed, just to have some distracting chatter in my head. You know, to drown out the internal shouting of “OH MY GOD WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE”.
But I didn’t need to. I stared at pictures of it for two days prior. I mentally pep talked myself. “You can do this.”
Our minds conjure up the worst imaginable and I think that is so that when the actual event occurs it’s never as bad as our imagination has led us to believe.
I memorized the number of feet. I calculated speed. I knew about how many seconds I’d have to be up there. I never looked to my left or right, I kept my eyes straight ahead.
I never panicked. I never even broke out into a sweat. I felt a rush of exhilaration when it was all over and I could not stop grinning. Ava smiled back at me in the rearview mirror, not having a clue what I was so slap happy about. I just whispered to myself ,”I did it.”
I did. I made that bridge my bitch.
What’s up next? I don’t know. Right now I’m still on a high from conquering a long held fear. Pun very much intended.
Bitch, I'm a BUS!
**Ava was enthralled with the show. It was definitely worth all the anxiety.
Imagine
Imagine a world in which your children only were tucked into beds under your roof two weeks out of every month.
Imagine a world in which mornings did not always include a sweet sleepy face saying “Good morning Mommy”.
Imagine a world, in which your baby did, said and tried new things for the first time and you hear about it afterwards.
Imagine not being able to see or touch the soft hair of the person you gave birth to, because the court says it’s not your day.
Imagine walking out of a house, hearing your child screaming for you, sobbing, and having to just keep walking. Because your parenting time has ended for the week.
Imagine having to give up all your carefully laid plans on raising your girl, because now you only have control over her environment on pre-planned out days.
Imagine worrying that her parents living in two separate places and no longer functioning as a family will harm her in ways you can’t even envision yet.
Imagine you go days without physical touch of another human.
Unless you’ve been there. You cannot imagine. You cannot know the heartbreak. You cannot know the tears that are shed, the sobs that echo off walls. You cannot know the longing for the feel of her little hand tucked into mine. You cannot know the twisting of my heart as I smile for her, never letting her know my sadness.
When I say I cry, when I say I shed tears over something, don’t tell me I’m silly. Don’t trivialize my pain.
You don’t know my heart. You’ve no right to judge my heart.
Be grateful for your life. If it’s as good as you say, you don’t need to tear down my already battered emotions with your superiority.
Imagine that small words, tucked into sentences, have the power to hurt.
I hope all you ever have to do is imagine.
Impending – Pending
Some days it is a blank white canvas. It awaits colors and images. Fresh and new. Blank. It could be filled with people, love, laughter. New friends, old friends. The hope of new love. The hope of something better. It might be filled with bright flowers, a new home. One child becoming two.
Some days it is a black hole. Nothing is visible but darkness. No light creeps in from any corner. The road ahead invisible, blocked by a mountain of doubt and uncertainty.
I am a planner by nature. I don’t wait around to see what everyone else is doing and then figure out my own plans. I am a take charge, let’s get this done, person. Which is a difficult personality type to have when your life has been turned upside down.
I am stuck in neutral at the moment. Waiting. Waiting for this home to sell. Waiting for a date from the court to tell me this marriage is legally over. Forget practically. The expiration date on that has long since passed. Waiting on an agreement to find out which holidays I will get to enjoy with my sweet baby girl. Which ones I will spend alone.
Something I took for granted for so long: the simple joy of being with my child every day. No longer. Now her time will be split between between two homes. Two parents. Something that should be so easy for her – turning at once to both parents for security and love. She will have to do one at a time now.
She’s my baby. I carried her in my body for nine months. I was strapped to a table and cut open so that she could be born into this world. Born of my body. My flesh. My blood. The thought of going days without seeing her has ripped my heart to shreds.
Now I wait to see if we can agree on which days those will be. I wait to see if this house sells so I can choose our next home. I wait to see where my life travels next.
There are changes afoot. There are changes impending. But they are all pending something else.
And so. I wait.
New Normal
Last night I slept alone.
It was time.
Gone are the days of turning over at night, taking comfort in knowing there is someone there beside me. Someone who would hold and protect me. Someone with whom I could share my fear after a night mare, or to talk me down during a panic attack.
Truth be told that person hasn’t existed in a long time. We’ve just been two people sharing a bed. No true connection.
As much as I would like to turn back the clock, and have a do-over, I have to keep moving forward. If I allow myself to keep looking back, it will paralyze me. I can’t allow that to happen.
I spend my evenings alone, in quiet solitude. Sometimes with the television, sometimes with my iPod or Blackberry and Twitter to keep my company. Ava goes to bed early, leaving me with several hours to fill before it is my turn to fall into slumber. This is my new normal.
Mornings are spent in silence. Sitting beside someone who is at once familiar, and yet a stranger. No words are spoken, not even good byes. The new normal.
In the weeks and months to come, there are going to be so many more changes that will usher in the beginning of a new era. Papers will be filed. Our home will be going on the market. I will begin the process of finding somewhere new to live.
I am both terrified and oddly excited at the prospect. Terrified to be doing it alone. Nobody to help me make the hard decisions. Terrified at the thought of weekends and nights without my daughter. But excited to find a place that will be mine. Excited to build a home for her, and for me, that will be warm, inviting and safe.
I hate that we are about to turn her world upside down. Not just one new place, but two. The days of having both her parents under the same roof, giving her reassurance when she is anxious or frightened, gone. I don’t want her to have to come to terms with a new normal. Life as she knows it is all about to change.
God, don’t let us fuck it up.
Quicksand
Yesterday I lay on my bed, staring out the open window. Outside there is a plum tree and tiny little birds were zipping in and out of it’s branches, chirping. I wondered how many more times I would get to see their little show.
I spend a lot of time on this bed. It’s one thing that will remain mine after this messy division is complete. I am clinging hard to it. It is concrete in a world of quicksand. Crushing me as I sink deeper. One minute something is mine, the next I realize it is not.
The fridge I have taken for granted for almost 9 years. Will I soon be dependent on a small one, part of a new apartment? The wall of DVDs in the family room. Will any of those remain in my possession? The TV that I know is coming with me…what on earth am I going to set it on? Do I keep the curtains or let them go with the house? That freezer out in the garage…will I have to cram food into a tiny freezer above an even tinier fridge?
Eleven years of accumulating things. Things acquired as part of building a life. I was able to paint my walls. I love my walls. The colors were soothing to me. I used to love coming home. Now I dread it. I hate it. I feel as though I am simply living on borrowed time. And indeed, I am. Soon enough this house, this life that was lived within it’s walls will be nothing but a memory.
These may seem like silly things to think about. And indeed, in the bigger picture, they are. But they keep me from focusing on the harder things. The things that send me into a spiral of tears and lead me to the floor of the bathroom at work. The things that I know I will have to sort through, work on and get over.
Right now, I just want to lie on my bed and hope the quicksand doesn’t take me.
Protected: Statistic
Waffle Waffle Waffle
I’ll admit it. I can be a waffler. I make decisions when I’m feeling emotional, and then I come to regret them later when I’m not knee deep in the throes of a pity party.
Taking this site private was not an easy decision to make. I knew what it involved and how difficult it would be for me.
In the end, it is more difficult than I imagined it would be.
So.
Having thought about it for a couple of weeks now, here’s what I’ve decided to do. I know – you’re on the edge of your seat, holding your breath right now, aren’t you?
I’m going mostly public again.
Some posts will still be private, and if they are, and if you have a membership here, you will still be able to read them. All five of you. 
I love my baby girl. I love writing about her and I want to share that love with everyone.
Thanks for bearing with me as I figure this all out.
Real post to come later, I promise!
The One In Which I Whine. Again.
In the grand scheme of things, my life is pretty good. I have a nice house, a nice car. I have a beautiful daughter, who is healthy (other than a rash caused by her Pampers, thanks a lot for that, P&G), a husband, a good job. From the outside, one might look in and think I have it pretty good.
However.
Ahem.
I have had a serious case of super bitch going on this week. I’m tired. I’ve been battling some kind of creeping crud that just flattened me for a day or two. Flattened being a relative term, seeing as how I had to work anyway.
Work. I’m stressed about work, which is about to have a major change after 8 years of constant. 8 years of routine. At the heart of my worry – I don’t know exactly how things are going to change. It’s the uncertainty that I am having a hard time living with. I can’t do anything about it. All of it is out of my control. I do not like this. Being out of control is terrifying for me. I like my feet on the ground, my hands on the wheel. To know where I am going, confident because I am in charge of the route, is what is comforting for me. This? Is not comforting. This is free-falling from a plane, bobbing up and down in the wind, swirling round and round. I know soon enough, I will land. The problem right now is that I can’t see where it ends. Will it be soft? Will it be hard and unyielding? Only time will tell.
I find myself feeling useless. My close friends are going through things far more difficult than my petty problems. But they are so far away and I feel helpless to comfort them. Words on a computer, a text, an occasional gift, that must be delivered by a stranger. This is all I can offer them. It feels very inadequate. And then I feel terrible for feeling terrible about it. It’s not about me. It’s about them.
I find myself getting overwhelmed very easily these days. I thrive on order. Lately my life has seemed filled with anything but. I struggle to make dinner because the kitchen is still in a mild state of disorder from the night before. I snap at my husband in the car because the stereo is too loud and it’s one more noise filling up the already too-crowded space in my head. I start to clean dishes and have to struggle to keep my feet planted and not just run away. Again, I bark at Darin to put away some of the clean ones already. I know my tone is too sharp. I hear the words coming out and I just can’t stop them.
I don’t know where to go from here. I have some idea, but it’s a huge step, and one I’m not sure I’m ready for. One I’m not really ready to talk about..at least here.
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On a semi-related note -
When I write posts like this, I get lots of wonderful, supportive comments. I appreciate every single one. So much you cannot imagine. I read them all. I know I don’t usually reply to them, because I just don’t know what to say. I get tongue tied. Just know that I am grateful for all of you.
I write here
I’ve Been Featured On:
I Guess I Don’t Suck
