How am I preparing for Hurricane Sandy? Other than the usual, I'm making granola. And I'm printing directions for craft projects I've found on Pinterest and would like to try. Guy has the Weather Channel on, and is flipping to any storm coverage he can find--I'm trying to avoid watching and listening; preferring to look out the windows for now. I know at some point, I will long for the information flow, as there are predictions of up to 10 days without power. There's no way any batteries will last that long in this house! A dear friend has offered to be our evacuation site, if necessary, but we'll reserve that for emergency, as there are the five of us, plus two (rather big) dogs and Mom. We'll see. Next, I will probably hard boil the eggs, since at least two of us like them that way. Then I'll make soup for lunch.
The combination of dire storm warnings, full moon and the actual air pressure, I have this strong desire to curl into a ball and cry until the whole thing is over. Three days of tears would not only make me look rather lovely for the next week (puffy face, burned eyes and enlarged nose), but will also leave me with a strong desire to sleep for the next two days after that. Too much to deal with, so I'm resisting....
There's also the other Sandy I'm thinking about. Almost 20 years ago, Guy and I lost a baby, that we then named Sandy; an ambiguous name for a baby we never saw, and a baby whose very existence was questioned by the same doctor who confirmed the pregnancy. I've credited Sandy for being a good part of the reason I am the Mom that I am; for helping me through the tough (read: lonely) days of bed rest at the end of my pregnancy with Jonathan. Frequently, I find Sandy in the back of my mind, but the pain is just a faint memory. Occasionally, I wonder what Sandy would be doing now, but then I realize that our family would not be what it is today--at all. None of the combination of personalities would be what I know as our loving home. Not that I think it would be worse, or better, but different is different, and cannot ever be seen, in this case.
So, back to the granola, then eggs....followed by caramel apples, soup, and anything else that will keep me as busy as possible while the TV is on, maybe even some yoga. When (if) the power is out, at some point we will get tired of each other, I'm sure, but in the meantime, the older boys (including the extra "son" we had for the night) are still fast asleep, and the younger two are being as lazy as possible. Guy's moving the cars, and I'm wondering what the dogs will do later today (they don't like getting wet in the rain), and why there are so many cars driving past our house. And trying not to think about our niece at Hofstra and Jonathan at Ithaca. All while praying that we keep our sense of humor, if nothing else.
The laundry and porch paint-prep are done. Must remember to run the dishwasher soon.....
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pregnancy. Show all posts
Monday, October 29, 2012
Monday, June 18, 2012
It's a birthday day in our house today. The day couldn't be much more different from that day 16 years ago when we welcomed our second son. Today is chilly and damp; sweats and socks in the summer weather. That day was hot and sticky--I can still feel it!--and we had been strawberry picking over the weekend. It was a Tuesday, a solid week before my due date, and I was determined that the strawberries would not go to waste, so we were standing in a stinking hot kitchen stirring jam on the stove when I started to think I might be having contractions. We were going to finish that jam, though, dagnabit, so we sweated it out, me thinking these contractions were not so bad, considering their frequency, and Guy asking if we should get moving and just forget about the jam.
Have you ever made jam? Just leaving it without cleaning up the mess is really not an option. I had ruined a batch the year before, and remember still the rock hard glob that I spent days chipping out of the pot. Our firstborn had been induced, so we really had no idea what to expect when it came to labor that was not closely monitored and administered, lying in a hospital bed.
Once the jam was finished, and the pot washed, I had been having 7 minute contractions for about an hour, Jonathan had been picked up, and we headed to the hospital, where I labored f-o-r-e-v-e-r because we had gotten there too early. No wonder I thought the contractions were no big deal--they weren't! Eventually, they developed into something (what a difference!) and, after much frustration of women who came in after us leaving before us, I pushed twice and out came our big-headed baby boy! All 9lbs, 10oz of him. I remember being so excited for his brother to meet him, and just as excited to not be pregnant any more in that heat! I also remember the nurses telling us that they did not have diapers big enough for him in the nursery--they had to go up to pediatrics to find some--and the little bit of panic I felt wondering if he would fit in the clothes we brought to take him home in! (He almost fit in those pajamas. He wore them just the one time!)
In the years that have followed, he has put me through just about every emotion and every frustration nameable, and many that are not. He has the ability to make me crazy raging mad, as well as to touch my heart so deeply I smile, cry and melt all at once. He is at times one of the most mature people I know (yes, "people," not "kids"), and at other times such a baby. He makes me crazy. He makes me laugh. He makes me cry, despite my best efforts. He makes me proud. He embarrasses me. I love him dearly, though there really are times when I don't like him much.
More than anything, I hope I have done right by him. I hope I have been the momma he needed when he was small, and the momma he needs now. Sometimes I see him do things, or hear him say things that just make me cringe, and I wonder if I have failed in some way. Those are the days I want to go back in time and hold him in my arms again--but then I remember that he was never much of a snuggler, and I chuckle at the memory. He always was a great hugger, though, and still is, when I ask.
Happy birthday, Henry Lou. I love you. So very much.
Have you ever made jam? Just leaving it without cleaning up the mess is really not an option. I had ruined a batch the year before, and remember still the rock hard glob that I spent days chipping out of the pot. Our firstborn had been induced, so we really had no idea what to expect when it came to labor that was not closely monitored and administered, lying in a hospital bed.
Once the jam was finished, and the pot washed, I had been having 7 minute contractions for about an hour, Jonathan had been picked up, and we headed to the hospital, where I labored f-o-r-e-v-e-r because we had gotten there too early. No wonder I thought the contractions were no big deal--they weren't! Eventually, they developed into something (what a difference!) and, after much frustration of women who came in after us leaving before us, I pushed twice and out came our big-headed baby boy! All 9lbs, 10oz of him. I remember being so excited for his brother to meet him, and just as excited to not be pregnant any more in that heat! I also remember the nurses telling us that they did not have diapers big enough for him in the nursery--they had to go up to pediatrics to find some--and the little bit of panic I felt wondering if he would fit in the clothes we brought to take him home in! (He almost fit in those pajamas. He wore them just the one time!)
In the years that have followed, he has put me through just about every emotion and every frustration nameable, and many that are not. He has the ability to make me crazy raging mad, as well as to touch my heart so deeply I smile, cry and melt all at once. He is at times one of the most mature people I know (yes, "people," not "kids"), and at other times such a baby. He makes me crazy. He makes me laugh. He makes me cry, despite my best efforts. He makes me proud. He embarrasses me. I love him dearly, though there really are times when I don't like him much.
More than anything, I hope I have done right by him. I hope I have been the momma he needed when he was small, and the momma he needs now. Sometimes I see him do things, or hear him say things that just make me cringe, and I wonder if I have failed in some way. Those are the days I want to go back in time and hold him in my arms again--but then I remember that he was never much of a snuggler, and I chuckle at the memory. He always was a great hugger, though, and still is, when I ask.
Happy birthday, Henry Lou. I love you. So very much.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
sisterhood by experience
Two things recently have me thinking, hurting, yet peaceful. It is September; that time of year when things change. The weather begins to change, school starts, the leaves think about turning, and heartache, for many, returns. For me, it's the increased darkness--I do more thinking in the darkness. Summer nights are short, forgetful; blissfully so. The heartaches are not sharp or hard to deal with, and in fact, some I welcome, in a way. Those are the memories I need to keep me remembering who I am, what has helped to shape me, and what makes me grateful for the blessings in my life--some of which would not be possible without the bumps, stumbles and losses.
A dear friend of mine lost a beautiful baby girl in a past September. I had lost touch with her after high school, and didn't know of her loss until a few years after, but thanks to modern social networking, every September I am reminded, and find myself wishing that I could carry some of her pain for her. Instead, I remember. My niece was diagnosed with hypothyroidism this month. With the news, I was reminded of the combined relief and uncertainty that came with my own diagnosis, 18 years ago. These two women are linked in my present, and in my past.
At the time of my diagnosis, I was newly married, working at a job I really liked, and should have been happy. I felt like I must be happy, and yet I was moody, cranky, gaining weight, and secretly seeing someone. The someone I was seeing was a drowning woman in the lane next to me every time I swam laps at the pool. I knew she didn't really exist, because the first time I saw her, I stopped immediately to help until the lifeguard could get to her (I was a certified lifeguard, myself), and the lane was empty. I saw her again the next time I went, and after a while, I just expected her. I'd have said hello if I hadn't been working on rotary breathing. Who on earth could I possibly tell? Only crazy people see people who aren't there, right? The building, and the pool, were new--not even built on an area where there had been water, so she was clearly not a ghost. She was a figment, and I knew it. It wasn't until I went to the doctor for stomach pain, and was, months later finally diagnosed, that I learned that such visions are directly related to hypothyroidism; usually when left untreated for an extended time, but I've never been known for having 'the usual' symptoms of anything.
Almost immediately after starting my meds, I felt better, healthier, happier, peppier, though nervous about this condition that would require testing and medication for the rest of my life. The same condition that had caused my sister to have bald spots at my wedding. What if I lost all my hair? What if I gained even more weight? What if the drowning woman stayed? What if I couldn't have children? None of those things happened, and as a matter of fact, I became pregnant within a couple of months.
We were so excited! We told everyone right away. Why wait? This was what we had been waiting for, hoping for, and dreaming of. Guy was offered a job in Pennsylvania, we began preparing for a move, I began a diary to the baby, we had our first appointment with the doctor. Everything was wonderful.
Then, at 14 weeks, I started bleeding.
My friend, Amy, went with me to the ultrasound. The technician actually said to me, "What makes you think you were even pregnant? There is absolutely no sign of pregnancy here." Through my shock and tears, I tried to explain that the doctor had done all the tests, confirming......it was no use. Nothing, no amount of arguing, sadness, or pleading could bring back that little bitty life. My dear, sweet Amy called each of our family members to pass on the news. I sat right next to her, and she passed the phone to me after speaking to each of my 5 siblings and Guy's 7, and each of our parents. I could never thank her enough in three lifetimes. Fortunately, she knows.
Not knowing if the baby was a boy or a girl, we named the sweet memory Sandy, and managed the stress of the move by talking about what would have, could have been. Three months later, when I was pregnant with Jonathan, we were so overjoyed, we didn't foresee the emotional and painful moments to come. At three months--the time when "telling" is "safe"--we visited RI for Guy's brother's wedding. February. Sandy's due date. Ouch. Yet, in that visit, another relationship was restored--in a way, a gift from Sandy. Mother's Day that year, having the people we'd met in PA comment (constantly!!) on being 'almost a Mom' was harder than I ever would have imagined, and more of the same on Father's Day. Then, of course, that terrible realization in my 8th month that this baby could very well be born on the first anniversary of losing Sandy. I sobbed for hours, asking Guy how I would ever be able to love this baby for reasons completely unrelated to anything this baby could be. Jonathan arrived a week after that terrible anniversary, and all my fears were allayed.
All this time, I've known that Sandy is watching over this family. The doctor, at my appointment the day after the ultrasound, offered the clinical explanation that what I had "experienced" was a "hormonal pregnancy" related to the leveling off of my system when I started my medication. No sympathy at all, just the advice to try again in the future. We know better. I am the mother I am partly because of Sandy. Everything changed that August day, and I am, all these years later, at peace. I know that Sandy has guided me, and the boys, in making decisions. I know simply because it is what I believe. I also believe that Sandy was among the first to greet Dad in heaven, and I know that Dad has been telling stories to Sandy ever since they met. I sincerely hope Sandy and Brooke are friends, too.
In this, I find peace. I cannot carry Lynn's pain, nor can I share it completely, but I can relate in a way that makes me ache with her every September. I cannot anticipate how Anna's diagnosis will affect her, but I can help her navigate the first steps, and those she'll come across years from now. We are linked, forever, by our individual lives. And, though sometimes difficult, it is good.
A dear friend of mine lost a beautiful baby girl in a past September. I had lost touch with her after high school, and didn't know of her loss until a few years after, but thanks to modern social networking, every September I am reminded, and find myself wishing that I could carry some of her pain for her. Instead, I remember. My niece was diagnosed with hypothyroidism this month. With the news, I was reminded of the combined relief and uncertainty that came with my own diagnosis, 18 years ago. These two women are linked in my present, and in my past.
At the time of my diagnosis, I was newly married, working at a job I really liked, and should have been happy. I felt like I must be happy, and yet I was moody, cranky, gaining weight, and secretly seeing someone. The someone I was seeing was a drowning woman in the lane next to me every time I swam laps at the pool. I knew she didn't really exist, because the first time I saw her, I stopped immediately to help until the lifeguard could get to her (I was a certified lifeguard, myself), and the lane was empty. I saw her again the next time I went, and after a while, I just expected her. I'd have said hello if I hadn't been working on rotary breathing. Who on earth could I possibly tell? Only crazy people see people who aren't there, right? The building, and the pool, were new--not even built on an area where there had been water, so she was clearly not a ghost. She was a figment, and I knew it. It wasn't until I went to the doctor for stomach pain, and was, months later finally diagnosed, that I learned that such visions are directly related to hypothyroidism; usually when left untreated for an extended time, but I've never been known for having 'the usual' symptoms of anything.
Almost immediately after starting my meds, I felt better, healthier, happier, peppier, though nervous about this condition that would require testing and medication for the rest of my life. The same condition that had caused my sister to have bald spots at my wedding. What if I lost all my hair? What if I gained even more weight? What if the drowning woman stayed? What if I couldn't have children? None of those things happened, and as a matter of fact, I became pregnant within a couple of months.
We were so excited! We told everyone right away. Why wait? This was what we had been waiting for, hoping for, and dreaming of. Guy was offered a job in Pennsylvania, we began preparing for a move, I began a diary to the baby, we had our first appointment with the doctor. Everything was wonderful.
Then, at 14 weeks, I started bleeding.
My friend, Amy, went with me to the ultrasound. The technician actually said to me, "What makes you think you were even pregnant? There is absolutely no sign of pregnancy here." Through my shock and tears, I tried to explain that the doctor had done all the tests, confirming......it was no use. Nothing, no amount of arguing, sadness, or pleading could bring back that little bitty life. My dear, sweet Amy called each of our family members to pass on the news. I sat right next to her, and she passed the phone to me after speaking to each of my 5 siblings and Guy's 7, and each of our parents. I could never thank her enough in three lifetimes. Fortunately, she knows.
Not knowing if the baby was a boy or a girl, we named the sweet memory Sandy, and managed the stress of the move by talking about what would have, could have been. Three months later, when I was pregnant with Jonathan, we were so overjoyed, we didn't foresee the emotional and painful moments to come. At three months--the time when "telling" is "safe"--we visited RI for Guy's brother's wedding. February. Sandy's due date. Ouch. Yet, in that visit, another relationship was restored--in a way, a gift from Sandy. Mother's Day that year, having the people we'd met in PA comment (constantly!!) on being 'almost a Mom' was harder than I ever would have imagined, and more of the same on Father's Day. Then, of course, that terrible realization in my 8th month that this baby could very well be born on the first anniversary of losing Sandy. I sobbed for hours, asking Guy how I would ever be able to love this baby for reasons completely unrelated to anything this baby could be. Jonathan arrived a week after that terrible anniversary, and all my fears were allayed.
All this time, I've known that Sandy is watching over this family. The doctor, at my appointment the day after the ultrasound, offered the clinical explanation that what I had "experienced" was a "hormonal pregnancy" related to the leveling off of my system when I started my medication. No sympathy at all, just the advice to try again in the future. We know better. I am the mother I am partly because of Sandy. Everything changed that August day, and I am, all these years later, at peace. I know that Sandy has guided me, and the boys, in making decisions. I know simply because it is what I believe. I also believe that Sandy was among the first to greet Dad in heaven, and I know that Dad has been telling stories to Sandy ever since they met. I sincerely hope Sandy and Brooke are friends, too.
In this, I find peace. I cannot carry Lynn's pain, nor can I share it completely, but I can relate in a way that makes me ache with her every September. I cannot anticipate how Anna's diagnosis will affect her, but I can help her navigate the first steps, and those she'll come across years from now. We are linked, forever, by our individual lives. And, though sometimes difficult, it is good.
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