It's 3:35 AM and I owe an immeasurable debt to hospice nurse Corina. There is simply no greater comfort, medical knowledge, and support I could have been given when I called to ask for advice regarding my father's breathing difficulties and resultant anxiety.

Yes, I should be sleeping; I'm not. My mother, however, is. This is a huge blessing, as is the family I am surrounded by - all sleeping, too. I only have a few hours to go and maybe I'll get some sleep, too.

Labels: death, gratitude, illness

A friend takes my children for a few hours this afternoon while I go to my parents' unencumbered by their rascally selves. This is a good thing because my mother is very underslept and there's nothing for it, really. After some medication my father falls into a deep but brief sleep and I serve my mother some soup I made up; we sit in her kitchen and talk.

It is a good talk. We discuss friends, betrayals, a memorial service. She tells me she's worried for me because there's so much of me I get from him. Our flexibility and abilities in living our lives, our "intellectual..." she trails off (what did she mean?). She cites us both as intuitive about "people's bullshit". I have always thought this as true about my father to an extreme degree. I have often trusted his intuition. I haven't thought much about mine. It is interesting hearing her compare us and I wish I'd have really marked down all she said. But I was thinking about helping her through this conversation. How sad she has to see her own children hurt, to worry for us even now.

For all the help and ease the hospice group is supposed to provide, my mother is still on the phone a lot coordinating things. I watch her try to concentrate (mispronouncing "albuterol" worse and worse with each repetition on the phone). I watch my dad breathe. He looks like he's climbing a mountain! So does she! He is so thin his ribcage protrudes and rounds out his body, his flesh fallen away. His pantlegs are rolled up to expose his calves (I realize something I too do to my pajamas when sleeping) and the skin on his calves is smooth and pale and unflawed.

A few minutes after our lunch he stirs and awakens. He never gets more than a couple hours stretch at a time. He sees me and his eyes open wide, his arms pop up and out for a hug. I immediately hug him as naturally as if this was something we did all the time (we didn't). "I love you daughter," he says. I tell him I love him too. I hug him too. I feel some of my self-consciousness evaporate, because I'd been hugging him more, mostly unsure if it was appreciated.

We get a delivery for another machine that will help give him better air. He can't talk for very long without pausing for breath. The technician is showing us tubes and switches and his voice hushes a bit in deference, probably thinking my mom and I are about to cry, or very sad. But I'm not thinking about the machine or the air or even feeling terrible. What is stuck in my mind, and what lends me to flush with tears, is how very, very much my father looked like an infant, in the way he held up his arms and asked me near.

I am so honored I get to see him this way, I get to see his "baby" self, his true self. He's dying but he's also crystallizing in my mind. Never have I been more sure of who he is in my life, and where he dwells. Never have I seen him so clearly; in some way he is not diminished but augmented. I see him even in this form as more beautiful, more pure, more himself. My time with him renders his physical changes as less shocking, and not horrible, but simply amazing. It is hard to watch him suffer, yes. Very hard. But it is also amazing to see a person stripped further, yet still so very much a person.

When he's awake and feeling better I enjoy his humor, his conversation. He eats a plum, the first and only thing he's eaten so far today. He eats the dripping fruit with relish but clumsily, beset by an inability to finish the job - yes, like a first plum tasted by an infant. He prefers fresh water and says it tastes "horrible" after an hour. I am so pleased to fill his water glass, to provide him compazine for his nausea. I hope, hope so much, that until the last I can give him something, some assistance.

Life is messy, and funny. Standing in the kitchen doorway the dog quickly turns about on the carpet and shits on the floor before I can intervene. I laugh and clean the mess; disgusting. My dad says, "It's Thursday - just put it in the trash and it will be taken tomorrow." His mind is still remarkably clear even with medicine and naps; he recites his physician's phone number to assist in a pharmacy phone call. "You're going to miss my memory banks," he tells my mother, with an almost smug knowledge that yes, we've always known his memory so much better than the rest of ours; a gift really.

I leave to pick up my children, and a prescription. I will return to stay the night and give my mother a full night's rest - or that is the hope anyway, for what our plans these days are worth.

Labels: death, graz, illness, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

This morning while brushing my teeth I discovered a small, irate monster dwelling in my breast: guilt. I'd heard of so-called "survivor's guilt" but until that moment didn't realize I'd been mired in it.

It's useless to try to describe, even though I love to write, I love to come to a point or make a point and feel well-expressed. It's simple: I feel guilt. I feel guilt no matter how hard I work, how correctly I conduct myself, and especially when I'm not over-working, when I know I could be doing more or better. I feel guilt sometimes (but not always) when I'm going about my business - when I'm telling my mother I'm taking an embroidery class next Monday. What right do I have to make plans, to rub the point in further that I have a life to move on to while my father does not?

I visit my parents this afternoon after the girls I babysat have been picked up by their mother. My mom tentatively feels me out for coming back over at 3:30 to sit with my father while she gets her hair done. I support my mom having time away so much that I'd probably do just about anything to help her acquire it.

So this means instead of coming home and letting my kids play with the new toy I bought them (yay pizza!) while I lie down or take a bath or even sew a little, instead I will come home and take care of my children's needs quickly then bike back over there and sit with my father and watch him struggle to breathe. This is a decidedly less pleasant affair than watching someone struggle to breathe who is going to recover. This is watching someone over a period of days slowly be strangled, but there's a lot of free time to say stupid things like, "Can I get you a cup of coffee?" but mostly just sit and feel so completely ineffectual and feel like it's your fault. True story.

When you are supporting people who are experiencing a loss people will tell you "it must mean so much to them" and "they know you are there and it gives them peace", but I have no particular knowledge that in any way my presence, my hugs, my deliveries of food or juice or water, my talk, my silence, my prayers do any good at all. I know they comfort my mother; she tells me this. I know in no way if I help my father, at all.

If I wasn't pressed for time I'd write more: that the idea of "help" is selfish (there is very little I can do), the idea of "guilt" is selfish (it's all about me!). The concept of being present, while your loved one suffers and dies, is all I can do, and sometimes it's hard to do even that.

Break time is over. Time to get going back.

Labels: babysitting, cancer, illness, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

Are we dying, or are we really living?

Last night we had a very small gathering which was only in part about my mother's birthday. I made a cake; or rather, I made the best frosting ever, and fucked up the cake on eighteen levels, and Ralph saved the day with his amazing cake re-animator skills, and it turned out an *awesome* cake. We dressed the kids up nice and packed up the birthday gift and homemade card and headed to meet family.

My father's brother and sister had arrived in town to stay at my parents' house hours after the piano has been moved and minutes after an adjustable bed (complete with oscillating air mattress to forestall bedsores), wheelchair, and oxygen tank had been installed. My mother hadn't been happy at first when it dawned on her my dad wasn't well enough to go out to dinner (the original plan). So after a talk with me on the phone she decided to pick up dinner. Now I'm in the living room talking to my aunt and uncle, the kids crawling on everyone, Ralph fixing my aunt and I a cocktail, and my mother nervously chopping up a salad. She's feeling glad for my family's help yet somehow "responsible" for everyone's food, good time, and happiness. P.S. her influence is something I struggle with daily - being a hostess, but not taking on The Weight Of The World by doing so, either.

My dad sits quietly. Sometimes his head is in his hands. Sometimes he smiles. He joins in the conversation then sinks away. We ask if he needs more medicine. After he has a coughing fit that lasts a while, Nels approaches his knee gravely and tells him to drink his water.

After dinner the kids are absolutely obsessed with the electric bed that's not in the living room. I tell them after dinner, wash hands, let us make it up, then you can get in. In tucking in sheets and sorting out pillows I realize I am making up my own father's deathbed. Sometimes I get these dramatic sentences, they pop in my head. But it doesn't need to feel bad. Why not a deathbed? I remember us making up my bed for my son's delivery, at home. This was an occasion too of worries, of expectation, of the unknown. The more time I spend at my parents' home the more similar and deep the experiences of birth and death seem to me. It's not even as simple as one event is joyous and the other sad, although I know so many see it that way.

The kids are in the bed, giggling. Nels says he's "dying", sticks his tongue out, dramatically falls back in bed. Sophie manifests a convincing consumptive cough. Ralph ministers to them by pouring out "medicine" (Diet Coke!) in a teaspoon. They love this. They cuddle-wrestle. My mother moves the bed into different positions. Nels snaps to this concept and when my mother leaves he immediately finds and operates the bed control. She returns, scolds him. He is banished from the bed for the evening.

This morning my mom arrives on the bike to deliver some leftover baked sweets that came into her life. People bring food to her home and it is appreciated, so very much, although I think people (including myself) may be bringing a few too many sweets - at least in the days when it's just my mom and dad in the house. But food doesn't go to waste around here. For instance, I made her a pie last week from fresh-picked berries (actually I made three, gave them to various and sundry) and she was able to take it to church and share it, something I knew gave her satisfaction.

I don't mean to go on about food. My mother's mood this morning is almost elated, girlish. She has somehow escaped hostess duties for a little bit of exercise, a drop-in visit bearing gifts. She hugs the children and cuddles the youngest chick before revealing what's probably really got her happy: "David slept really well tonight," she tells me (they had both slept poorly the night before). "He only woke up coughing once and I gave him some oxygen. I think that bed really helped."

Life (death) will get difficult again. But last night our family gathering - interrupted with a welcome and sweet visit from two friends bringing, yes, pies and singing two-part "Happy Birthday" - wasn't co-opted by maudlin experiences of sickness and dying, even as we were in the presence of such and indeed had gathered because of it.

Labels: cancer, death, family life, food, Grazdma, illness, tenderness, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

No, I'm not much better physically, but the codeine helps at night. Everything else is going well. This weekend was spent on the beach, in the yard, working on the garden, making sweet love, watching family movies, baking bread and yes, even sewing! (a polka-dot shirt from vintage fabric for yours truly).

Ralph put a webcam up on our garden:



Now available to view in real-time: Nels watering garden, cats lying under the broccoli.

Labels: garden, illness, sewing, weekend

Last night at 4 AM found me huddled in two blankets on the cot of a very cold exam room, awaiting a consultation regarding a chest x-ray. I have been enduring what feels and describes itself as bronchitis for about two weeks. During the day I'm mostly fine, with a cough and fatigue setting in (I hate fatigue because at heart I am a busy little beaver!) but the nights have just been worse and worse. Imagine coughing, coughing, coughing and feeling like your lungs were filling every time you lay down. It's kind of cute one night but it's wreaked havoc on me lately.

Well, I came away from the whole hospital trip with a diagnosis I've never heard of, a couple drugs I was confused about, and some heavy-duty cough syrup - at least I knew what to do with that. And I don't have pneumonia, which was starting to be my worry. Lungs look good. I'm still tired from a few consecutive nights of poor sleep. I have a dread of tonight and the rest I may or may not get - lying in bed with everyone asleep, me awake and alone. I swear that's what sucks most of all.

Labels: illness, the bod

I've taught a few sewing classes (to smatterings of attendance) over the last few years and I recently remembered a rather funny moment. My four students and I were about twenty minutes into our first class and introducing ourselves in that sort of nervous way when another woman joined us, flustered at being late. Somehow in her hurried apologies to the class she gestured at her crocheted hat and told us, "I just had brain surgery" by way of explanation for something or other. And in her hands she carried a toy - not a miniature, but an actual toy, machine.

Everyone kind of paused in that "dangerous" moment (in reality, there is no danger) where we are assessing if this person is playing on the same field we are. But it turned out this woman was a sweet, intelligent, mother of grown children who worked in the area. Later that summer I counseled her on a machine to buy (a Singer 15-91), found her a manual, and helped her learn to thread her machine while she fed my children homemade applesauce in her sunny, homey kitchen.

This is no segue, but I just had a rather unfunny but startling moment about five minutes ago when I called my mother (to tell her to cover the truckload of fill dirt we hauled yesterday) and found out she and my father had been at the hospital all night because of his skyrocketing blood pressure (a new ailment). It's like - I know my father is dying, but I still get so scared when I hear his life is in danger - and this is the silly part - I briefly and passionately react as if I can do something to rescue him from this eventuality.

I finished three pair of pants for Nels the other day. My kids' growth and play-use of clothing outstrips my ability to sew for them. I may have to - gasp! - actually buy them a thing or two soon.

Labels: illness, Nels, sewing, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

Don't tattle on me, but I drove my dad's Ford Lariat XLT today. I think it was meant to be as the thing's tape deck works and, this morning upon plugging in the iPod, my one Bob Seger song came on ("You'll Accompany Me", obtained for the purpose of the excellent mix tape "Stalkin' Rockin'"). The truck feels about one city block wide. I had more sympathy for the huge-ass trucks that somehow manage to not run me down on the bike.

I love having the iPod in the car and later in the day the guilty pleasures playlist continued. Nels joined me for grocery errands in the afternoon whiel Sophie stayed home with a still-sick Ralph. Nels is, oddly, interested in club and dance fare which I have in limited fashion (mostly Beyonce and Timberlake's latest). It's truly frightening because in no way have I encouraged this yet he finds these songs and memorizes them. Today it was Nelly Futado's "Promiscuous"* and DJay and Shug's rendition of "It's Hard Out Here For A Pimp" - the latter of which he scrolled through the iPod to find while I was inside the house for a few minutes! I think it's the drum machine intro that lets him know he's in for some campy goodness.

I on the other hand felt free to put on Muse's "Bliss" and belt out in my horrifically-bad falsetto (I don't think Ralph likes Muse but I really, really do so I listen to them when on my own). Nels enjoys the distortion guitar crunch far less than the tribal beats and hooks of hip-hop / dance production, but he's willing to give me a chance, asking the name of each song and sometimes, what it's about. The truly amazing thing is he can remember lyrics and elements of a song after only one repetition. And he doesn't mind how loud I turn it up.

* In fact as I typed this entry, he came and found me post-nap and asked for this again which he is now calling his "favorite song".

** today, to "11".

Labels: illness, music, Nels, roadtrip

My husband has been lying in bed sick, or under some general malaise, since early this afternoon; it was left to me to prepare Easter dinner (BLTs with homemade white bread, deviled eggs, carrot sticks, olives, fancy pretzels, hot tea), pick up tomato starts, entertain the children, do the preschool's laundry, tidy the house, and make these:


Please excuse the crappy Photo Booth shot; these turned out as beautiful as the tutorial indicates.

Happy Easter, all!

Labels: food geekery, garden, holidays, illness, Ralph

I find when I invite gratitude into my life, richness pours in. Today I felt so fortunate to be sitting in the hospital with my mother and son while my father sat pre-surgery awaiting another medical procedure - this time, a port installed into his body so we could pump chemo into his heart. The nurse commented on my father's eyelashes. Since his latest respite from chemo his hair not only grew back thicker and kinkier, his eyelashes are long and curly like a cupid's, a rare physical beauty blooming from a ravaged body. Another strange-yet-true part of our journey with cancer. Nels' behavior is complemented by many nurses and staff and in turn I get to hear the (rare) out-loud testimonies from my parents, who are proud of the care their grandchildren receive.

This morning my husband printed out fifty copies of the zine (click to download: [here] ) and after getting home from the hospital I painstakingly stamp them all. They're off to my East County distributor, whose efforts I appreciate so much in spreading the zine out a bit. Perfectionist I am, I cringe that my website still needs an update; oh well. "Done is better than perfect," I remind myself.

In just a few minutes Nels and I travel to Suse's kindergarten class for a Valentine's Day party. My mother made lovely meringue sugar cookies and I am supplying soaked almonds and dried fruit. Let me tell you, my time with those children is unadulterated joy. Now if I can just pace myself, I'll still have energy to sew on my brother's coat this evening before we're off to an Open Mike at the deli (Ralph is performing).

Labels: gratitude, Grazdma, illness, Nels, Ralph, school, SNF, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

Yesterday, annoyed that taking rest the week before had not resulted in a complete recovery, I simply didn't rest. And perhaps in karmic bodily retribution, last night I had the worst case of stuffed-up head I'd ever had. I felt like I'd been hit in the face with a big, blunt object - without the pain, but with all the swollen pressure. A shot-glass of the blue-green heavy duty called Nyquil provided means to sleep through the congestion. Waking up after mouth-breathing all night: priceless.

Today about thirty minutes before school's close I get a call that my daughter is sick; her ear hurts. She'd mentioned this in the morning but had not felt hot nor looked feverish so I'd sent her off. I help Nels into layer upon layer and we go pick up his sister. Home again I begin an afternoon meal of soup (garlic sauteed in coconut oil, broth, pasta, cayenne, lemon, egg), salted cucumber, and sliced blood oranges while my daughter falls asleep in front of the fire, an exhausted pile of empty-looking clothes.

Ralph too is sick but did not stay home from his day trip to Olympia. Only Nels and Harris remain cheerful and virile, my son quickly scuttling under the kitchen table when I catch him, barechested and eating directly from the sugar tin. I place a small table for him in my bedroom so we can watch a movie with monsters together and wait for the man of the house to return.

Labels: food, illness, Ralph, roadtrip, school, Sophie

Today dawned hopeful, cold and clear - and plopped down on stuffy, whored-out and pissy. I am having a terribly discouraging time with aspects of Nels' preschool environment. I am having a lot of difficultly lately interacting with my son and expecting respect while getting along (when did he turn into a messy-headed wolf cub?). I am having an annoying time with the local printery. But mostly, I'm having the worst time overcoming my residual head cold and my poor attitude.

So, it's time for a little gratitude. Here are some great things that have come out of the last few days:

• Helping my children learn more chores (they are surprisingly adroit!)
• Explaining money-saving to them both (Nels' goal: a squeaky duck; Sophie's, winter boots)
• Explaining "flashing" to them both (thank you, John Waters cameo!)
• Sophie's term for a productive cough: "hork ball"
• Nels' kisses and cuddles (when he's not directly defying me at every turn)
• New sewing patterns in the mail - Victorian garments (ooh, practical!)
• New laser printer (zine approaches self-sufficiency)
• Ralph's support (very well-rendered this week)
• Friends either helping or offering to help
  
• Ladies' Night at deli tonight
• Brown sugar ham sandwich. 'Nuff said.

I feel a lot better typing that out.

In other news: Sophie is getting a new loft bed in her room now shared with Nels (P.S. I like sewing or the possibility of sewing more than a potential for my own children's coddled existence!). I was recently re-reminded of why we are glad to live our lives more simply (and no, I'm not referring to our phone and DSL services' disconnection for non-payment, which has now been remedied). We're considering going to one car although I will have to draft up my last will and testament now that I'm biking in Grays Harbor. Harris and Blackie have to go to the vet under false premises to have things cut off them (nuts, cancerous growth resp.). My brother never writes nor calls from Portland, the ass. And we are actually very sad here at Casa Del Hogaboom over Heath Ledger's recent demise (rare pop-culture reference, here).

Labels: film, i'm a hater, illness, Nels, Ralph, Sophie, writing, zine

Today at 4 AM I awoke congested with a sore, scratchy throat. I suppose it was bound to happen. I've been around various sick folks (my son, my husband, a good friend, and my hostess for the weekend) and putting travel into the equation seals the deal.

At this early hour my husband hears me up and sick and offers to stay home. He is still getting over his illness - an achy, uncomfortable nausea both he and Nels shared over the weekend. Nels himself sleeps in until 10:30 before awaking. Rest, rest, rest. No sewing like I'd planned, or YMCA workout. Nothing done but holding down the fort, watching TV, reading, and maybe knitting.

Sometimes I don't understand my family - meaning my FOO. This morning I notice that when I tell my parents I'm sick, they express no sympathy - only derision. My mom repeatedly asks why Ralph would stay home. She does not ask about my symptoms. My dad actually calls me a "puss" (I end the phone call, disinterested in this). It sounds callous and assy to write about their response here; but those of you with family know there is some way that family behavior seems "normal" when we live it and only seems rude or strange when it's communicated to an outsider. Thinking about it, it bothers me. And I don't understand it. I ask myself: how do I express myself when my family suffers? How do I wish to be treated when I suffer?

My immediate family and my pets are in more of an accord; loving, cuddling. Ralph offers to make coffee, tea, breakfast. I have some hot broth for breakfast, tea, coffee. A bath. My body aches, my head aches, and I feel chills. Time to go back to bed and maybe later, trying the third treatment:

Labels: FOO, illness, Ralph

So - whoops, tee-hee! We are temporarily broke. Dry. Out of money. When I say "out" I mean "out". This means no groceries or gas or espresso for us until Thursday (Wednesday, if we want to celebrate early with a check to Top Food & Drug). Hey, it happens. It hadn't happened in a while, so, things were going well as far as I was concerned. And it wasn't even Christmas or anything, which we spent a very modest amount on (by that I mean, I spent less than one hundred dollars). It just... happened. Again. Today I took some random stuff out of the freezer and heated it. Tomorrow I'll get my 5 lb. bag of whole wheat flour from my mom's kitchen and make some pizza without cheese or something.

Our daughter is unexpectedly taking one for the team today, though. She has literally not had a thing to eat except a few ounces of milk this morning. She got sick this afternoon and has been spending her time hot, vomit-y (once), weak, and sleeping. Amazingly she checked herself into the nurse's station at school and slept a while, then returned to class (rather than calling home for me). When I picked her up she was very hot, weak, and a special shade of milky-green. She's been home with me ever since, and I've been taking care of her which mainly consists of bathing, cuddling, and petting her. Poor child.

But thanks, Sophie, for not taking up any of our precious, precious resources. Just a few more days, honey.

Labels: grocery opus, illness, Sophie

I think the kind of day like today, where one stays at home and asses out and asks Husband to stay home with the kids, eating poorly all day because one is sick and isn't cooking well, and gets nothing done - someone who say, prides themselves on working hard and usually experiences some self-esteem to say at the end of the day, "I did such-and-such and nailed it" - for someone like that, a sick day with junk food and no ambition, the kind of day that only happens about once year for that person -

Anyway like I've said, today is precisely the wrong type of day to idly sit down at the computer and end up on the MySpace clickaround... you know, looking at other people's pictures, reading comments, starting to believe everyone else does more traveling and has better times and killer inside jokes. They've been drunk with fun friends more often and have nicer clothes and their kids are more fun and less work than mine.

Some voice of reason would tell me there is no way to know someone's existential reality by their uploaded persona-bytes. An even smarter voice of reason tells me I loathe MySpace, I really do (except my friend Jessica's blog), and never have benefitted from using it, much. And that I should get back to watching a movie and knitting socks for my daughter, instead of feeling flaccid and sick in front of the computer screen.

On the other hand, there's a way to lift my spirits almost unfailingly: spending time "doing nothing" with my family. In this case, a ride to the video store instead of staying home. As we drive through the rain-soaked evening, snug in our car, we offer the kids a choice - two movies, simplified as "one with aliens, the other with weird creatures". Sophie votes "Creatures!", Ralph and I concur on aliens, and Nels' vote stands in sway. Finally he says, "Aliens," decisively, prompting a total crying breakdown of our daughter who throws her head back and howls, "Noooo....!"

The car is briefly quiet except for her crying. After a minute Nels says quietly, "What about creatures?" Reconsidering. For his sister's feelings. And I wish I had a recording of what his voice sounds like, saying that. His voice is attached to my heartstrings.

Labels: film, illness, Nels, Sophie, verbatim

Thanksgiving is come and gone. There was a lot of food. There were visits from family and friends. Yesterday I worked for ten hours straight and didn't even take a bathroom break. It was surreal. It was a nice day.

This morning we woke up with Nels in the bed (in between Ralph and I - how did that happen again?), and a curious kitty visiting each member of the family one by one with his snow paws until we all gradually had our eyes open and we all had our arms around one another. What's nice is we get two more mornings like this in the weekend, mornings without Ralph having to rush off to work and me having to get the kids to school.

It seems there were a few people out for walks today as the weather was brilliant and clear. Our foursome walked a little under three miles and it was such a nice time talking with the family - well, especially Ralph who's looking so especially handsome these days for some unknown reason - and viewing Skanky the Seal in the Hoquiam River. I finished Sophie's two skirts but lost energy before I could start sewing the dresses.

My parents arrived back home today after their Thanksgiving at the family's Mason Lake cabin. It was so nice to see them again tonight although being around them fills me with inner sadness I dare not show them. My father is having trouble swallowing because (we think) of the tumor growing just behind his stomach. He kept putting his hands to his face because his new medicine irritates the lining of his throat and mouth. I think it's like having one's entire mouth be a canker sore. The steroids are making him sleep poorly. He talked about waking up at 3 AM and being wide awake. I hated the thought of him being alone and wish I was in the house to sit with him. Despite all his suffering he was gentle and sweet tonight, chasing my children and hugging them. We talked about a recent ridiculous letter to the editor and laughed and laughed.

My mom was also bad off. We talked about some of the things bothering her for a while and she was, uncharacteristically, not able to feel better by the time I left. It isn't just my father and his illness, but also some of her experiences with her own father and two of her siblings this weekend. I think my mom's world is slowly crumbling in more than one way. I obviously know a lot more about her situation but there is no point to writing more about it here. These days I'm out and about I really will experience what people call "a chill around my heart". When this coldness creeps into me it stays with me for hours at a time, even if I look like a loving mother or caring wife or a happy friend - I still feel it there.

My children are a saving grace. They give me focus, direction, and ground me in reality. Life goes on and my children are evidence. They are irrepressible, at turns incredibly wise and ridiculously irreverent, made of sturdier stuff than the rest of us. Give them a nap, tell them a story, feed them, wash their hands or play a game of 20 Questions and they are as good as new, able to handle a hike or bad news or a visit to the hospital or help with chores. They give us lessons in survival and unconditional love. I'm not sure what I'd do without them. I'm glad I have them.

Labels: family life, Grazdma, holidays, illness, sorrows, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

(I've been getting a few emails lately in response to recent posts. I've had a lot of positive feedback and a lot of support. I want to take this opportunity to thank all who've written or said kind words. I will get back to you personally via email but it takes me a few days to catch up.)

This morning finds me walking with Nels in the jogging stroller. First we drop his sister off at school along with her AR reading book and the small collection of supplemental bread-making activities for this week (read=I am a big nerd. Breadmaking Hoga-book download: [here]). Walking, walking, walking. Nels was quiet and happy so I put my earbuds in and had some musical bliss.

We were headed to meet my parents at the hospital for my father's PICC insertion. This will be the third time in seven years my father has had a long catheter inserted into his veins to deliver poison. I am not afraid of medical procedures and I don't want my children to be, either; hence at any opportunity we accompany him if he's willing (so far, he always has been). I have to admit it is a little alarming to watch a nurse pull a three-foot long wire out of my father's body. It is a little sad to see him in that old-man-skinny look where he can cross his legs like a stork and waits patiently on the bed for whatever horror or annoyance they have for him today (in researching more about his new type of PICC I happen to think the flash screen on the PowerPICC site is actually kind of frightening rather than reassuring). His white socks are stained with smudges of blood from a rash his body is covered with, a skin irritation that lives on even though it's been a couple weeks since his last type of medicine. He gets dosed again with something less pleasant tomorrow so he is no longer having time to heal and recover before he gets more help/poison.
Still, having Nels and I (and of course, my mother) attending seems to fortify him. Talking to him about the process and involving ourselves pulls him out of a depressive funk and makes him feel, if not fully alive and well, valued and loved and still interesting as a person. Staying away from the reality of medical intervention and treatment would keep it "not normal" which can feel scary. I don't want him to be scared; I don't want to be scared. And while talking to him and the attending nurse an inspiration struck: I will knit an armband for the PICC site to keep the area secure and warm. I give a little thank you prayer for what seems to me a good idea.

Nels for his part loves the hospital. Today he is doted on by nurses who give him a coloring book and crayons, fruit snacks and a special little table for drawing. It would have been nice to have Sophie there as the attending nurse tells me she would allow my child to view the procedure. Sophie is a scientist; a frame of mind and state of being that keeps even the most obscure or disturbing medical facts anchored in a rational, curious, and strong mind.

Tonight the family splits forces: Ralph and Nels to a website meeting for the preschool, Sophie and I to swim lessons and then a Knit Night at my LYS. I have a sweater to repair, socks for Suse to finish, and an arm-band to start.

Labels: books, illness, knitting, Nels, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

Today I went to my parents' house as soon as I was done dropping off kids and fetching groceries. They were just back from the oncologist's. They'd heard a number. The number represents the amount of time this doctor thinks my father would have if they "did nothing" in terms of medication or treatment. It wasn't a very big number.

My parents and I sat at the kitchen table and talked about our options, our choices, the time we have left, all the medicine and treatments and our future plans. It was a good conversation; there was a lot of laughing, actually (my father's insistence on a coffee-can ash receptacle inspiring recitations of scenes from The Big Lebowski). I felt a lot of hope. It's also sad, and it just stays sad. It doesn't suddenly one day get poetic or easy or anything.

In the afternoon after Sophie's first-ever school conference (high marks, natch!) we went back to my parents' where the children played and snacked while my mom and I baked up a huge amount of pumpkin pies - 24 miniature ones, and one large one - for Sophie's school tomorrow. As soon as the pies were done we went to a house my mom is interested in buying (a downgrade from the large family house they are currently in). The house itself was a 1916 little cottage in a ghetto / river / industrial corner of town. The yard was amazing and even more so was the owner who'd built the garden - a jack-of-all-trades, an entrepreneur with glass-blue eyes and painter jeans, gesturing excitedly with his cigarette while talking to my father about solar power. He and his partner had formed the most amazing, beautiful garden I'd seen - orchards of cherry, fig, kiwi, pear, apple - bushes of beans and peas and carrots, potatoes, fennel, tomatillos, garlic - I mean literally almost anything you could think to grow. It was a really interesting part of our day. It was really lovely.

Labels: food, gratitude, illness, newness, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

I'm nervous about tomorrow morning. My parents are meeting with my father's oncologist to discuss his recent PET scan. I have been sad about something but haven't yet said anything: we have some not-good news as of a couple weeks ago. My father's CEA count (which is basically, a cancer indicator - read some medical jargon here if you really want to) jumped 20 points at the last test (hence the diagnostic PET). One thing this probably means is he will be off his "nice" chemo soon and back to a nasty one that makes him sick most of the week. Really sick. And full of rashes and nausea and all sorts of un-fun things.

I am dumb and superstitious about that CEA number. If it jumps, I think, He's going to die. It feels like as hard a blow as it did seven years ago when he was first diagnosed. I am just as upset, and I have just as much of a denial reaction, I am angry at anyone who doesn't understand what this feels like (which is a lot of people).

Yet I also feel like I'm supposed to have some sort of perfect balance of support, optimism, faith, and gritty realism. Somehow I'm required to have this perfect attitude that will tip the balance towards: longer survival. If I don't stay vigilant (doing what?) then he will get sick and die. Then there are the days I know that no one is assured any number of days, the moments I am at peace with the inevitability of death, they days I am just glad to have another day. These are the days I walk with the kids in the sunlight and am filled with joy. But then the "can do" attitude admonishes me - not to give up, not to get complacent. Be a winner! - somehow... or... he'll die. I will be partly to blame. It's exhausting.

It's also a helpless experience, because as much as I follow his health and ask how he's doing and try to be there for him, I can't help him. Not really. First off, he doesn't ask for help in any clear way (very few people do). Secondly, I can't take away the sickness and the poison in his veins no matter what I did (I just add other nourishing things like homemade meatballs and fresh lemon meringue pie).

We moved here in large part to be with family while family was sick and struggling. I am daily glad of this choice although it meant leaving things we loved. If I hadn't moved here I'd get to avoid experiencing these troubling and exhilarating times. That would probably feel more comfortable than it feels right now. But I'm not really a person who seeks comfort above all else.

Labels: illness, nerves, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

Labels: halloween, Harris, holidays, illness, Nels

Yesterday my father, mother, and their wee little dog loaded up in their homebuilt motor home (actually a converted logging crew bus with black-purple and gold detail, solar power, and an elevated roof - it's a trip) waved, and headed off for a 2+ week trip to Montana - the Tetons, Yellowstone, friends.

My brother gave long, sincere hugs goodbye. I felt just too rotten to do that so I pretended I didn't feel bad and held Nels on my hip (my god... he's three years old! I don't really have the baby-on-hip thing going on anymore, do I?). I occupied my mind thinking of how I was going to steal their lawnmower for a few weeks and pick up some of my mom's flower starts. But really, I felt just inexplicably shitty and couldn't get away from it; as they drove off I thought, well it makes sense I feel bad. My whole life we've been a foursome; we've always been together. And as they left I felt a keen separation as I will when either parent succumbs, and I wonder when that will be. My mother at least is mostly convinced my father doesn't have much hope of holding out much longer; his chemo treatment is losing efficacy and there isn't a backup plan after it stops holding the fort. Daily I go back and forth between letting them do the thing their way and just supporting and loving them; or inserting myself more aggressively: asking them to seek more opinions, going online and looking up experimental treatments. Daily I yo-yo between being allowed to accept his death and the peace and sadness this brings, and fighting for more life. It's an odd state of being that protracted illness and long-looming death can beget.

I also harbor this sneaking suspicion those sneaky bastards that are my Mom, Dad, and brother know something I don't and are keeping it from me. Like that the doctor only gave him a few weeks to live and that's why they're having this roadtrip. I wouldn't put it past that trifecta of non-communication. Last week he was so not-sick after his chemo I grew alarmed and point-blank accused him of not having treatment Tuesday, which he denied. Five minutes later I then ambushed my mother, coming inside the house with my kids: "Did dad really have chemo yesterday?" Her innocent and surprised reply, "Oh yes," was clearly honest. He just lucked out and wasn't very sick. The first time in six years we'd seen him feel good post-medicine, and I'm suspicious about it.

It's hard sometimes to remember that it isn't the cancer that makes him feel so bad, it's the medicine. I can't believe he's even gone through it for all these years with scarce a complaint (to anyone else; I know my mom gets a more full story). Sadly thought, it's also the sickness that contributes as he can get depressed. The depression changes him. I have known and loved him thirty years and up until he got sick I'd never seen anything like the depression, I would not have thought he had it in him. I don't talk him out of it, I talk to him. Sometimes he barely answers. I have found if I keep talking to him eventually he pulls his head out of whatever mire he was in and answers me. I go home, then come back the next day.

I like being active; on their trip, I email them. I work on a care package to send general delivery to whatever township they name. I thank Sweet Baby Jesus in his Golden Fleece Diapers that we moved here. It has been so nice spending time together and I love, love watching my children with my family. Yesterday at breakfast my father and my son sat together and my dad helped him eat breakfast and they fit together like peas in a pod. Nels put his hands up to grandpa's face and said in surprise, "You have glasses Grandpa!" and tenderly stroked his face. My father acted casual (his M.O. even at his most demonstrative) but his entire body leaned towards his grandson and they touched frequently. My dad wiped strawberry preserves off Nels' face and said, "Oh, I let you get some on your shirt. Your mom's going to be pissed." I ignored this. Then he said, "You're mom's going to have a heart attack, she's going to have kittens." so I looked at Sophie and said, "Should we get some kittens today?"

At the table I said to each of my parents: "Ralph and I think you are a good grandpa. And we think you're a good grandma."

Buen viaje, mi padre y madre.

Labels: FOO, goodbye, Grazdma, illness, Nels, roadtrip, tenderness, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

No sooner had I finished my Mother's Day entry the other night as Ralph was off at a concert when I got a panicked call from my mom. My father had collapsed in a faint on the floor of the bathroom. This was new. She wanted me to come over. I reminded her she could call her son that lived a few feet away, upstairs, and told her I'd be right over. I packed the kids up (they were in the bath) and went straight away.

Yesterday my dad had his typical chemo poisoning (along with an EKG ordered to investigate his fainting spell) and seemed the worse for wear. His weight is "up" as in, it's not the lowest it's been. But his spirits have been flagging a bit. And my conversation with my mother last night was depressing. She and my father seem miserable. They're "doing the math" again - his CEA count is steadily climbing, this is the last treatment out there and it's losing efficacy, etc. Doctors have asked them repeatedly not to focus on the CEA count. My mom is panicking and my father is losing heart.

It isn't the thought of my father having limited time left in number of months or scant years, facing eradication by this disease. I have accepted this at least mentally, if sadly. But I don't feel, as my mom does, that "the circumstances have changed" (meaning they're on the last leg of treatment); we've been talking the last six years about the eventuality that cancer will claim his life, increasingly more aware of this when we found out it had become metastatic. What I'm finding troubling is my parents' process; their drinking, my dad's depression. My dad's state of mind seems to fluctuate; at times he does not seem depressed as just - sick and in pain. At times it's hard to tell why he's morose, quiet, not speaking to us.

I can't tell if our - meaning the children and I - frequent visits to their place are a welcome joy and distraction, or simply a loud clamoring nuisance. My children have become as familiar with grandpa and grandma and their home that they are no longer on their best manners, but rather expect enjoyment and community on every visit. My father always seems especially happy to see them. I try not to overstay.

The other day my mother, the children, and I walked past a cat who'd died mysteriously, spread out on the sidelawn of the Elks building - a massive, beautiful striped tom. Now whenever we pass that block my son says, "Kitty is dead!", clearly not feeling any great momentous emotion about this, but rather still turning it over in his mind: What is dead? How did this happen?

I feel so sad how little I got to know two of my grandparents, while I had only limited exposure with the other two. It isn't just that I didn't spend time with them; even when we children did, there are so few stories that survive about the experience. We live here in HQX now, for the time being and for a handful of reasons, but in large part for both my children and parents' experiences of one another for as long as they may have together.

Labels: FOO, illness, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard

Mornings I often get a blissful few minutes to myself. My children stay up late and thusly sleep in nicely. I have been taking baths in the morning, lately out of necessity for my sinuses (sinusi?) but even as I get better I am still enjoying the ritual: the only light that of the window and a few candles, hot, steaming water, quiet through the house (which will not be quiet again until late in the afternoon, if that).

This morning, after washing my hair and leaning back, hot towels packed around my face, my body feeling strong and elastic and no longer alien and bone-achy, I eventually hear the rustle of Nels fumbling down the hall. I'd already been to his room twice this morning as he restlessly half-slept and tossed, grumping aloud, a troubled expression clouding his angelic brow ("angelic" here referring only to perfect, flawless skin and sweet, sleep-laden features - not the actual behavior or mind within said brow). That's just how Nels can be in the morning - grouchy (or "growksy" as Sophie still pronounces it) for no good reason although almost always feeling much better after the first bite of his morning meal (which today will be: toast, the last of Abbi's farm eggs, oranges and kiwi, the latter Nels' favorite fruit).

The disgruntled little soldier stumbles into the bathroom and sees I'm not providing him with a bowl of oatmeal or whatever, I am in the bath (which he loves to share), and he has to pee (which he never wants to do in the morning). Long story short, this results in: yelling (his), partial undressing (him), and finally, pissing on the floor (um, him there, yes). "Oh Nels. It's OK," I tell him as he cries piteously, having hosed a tidy corner of my floor. "I need to have a bath with you!"he wails (such drama!) and I pull him inside: of course, of course... I stroke him and the warm water envelops his body. He calms instantly and we float and I put my face in his damp hair and breathe.

A few minutes later Sophie comes in, hair tousled and smiling; lean, barefoot. and looking half-grown in her grownup little pajamas. Seeing us in the bath she says, "I want to get in, too." then stops and sees the boy-puddle on the floor. "What happened?" she asks, eyes and freckles open on her face. I tell her her brother had an accident. "Oh," she says. A pause. "Can I wipe it up?" "No, Mama can do that, it's OK." As she finishes her morning pee I sense, rather than see, our black cat scuttle along the hallway in some kind of cat-distress. A minute later the animal makes a crazy sound which I immediately recognize as a siren for getting the fucking cat out of the house. * Sophie is amazed: "Mama, the cat was talking!" she says, delighted (she is so amazed by "real" magic). "Yeah," I say, "That's not a good thing. That means she's upset and has to go outside." Sophie scoots out the door to take care of the cat (my children have both gotten strong and adept enough to pick the cat up and it is now one of their favorite things to do) and I get out of the bath, favoring Nels with a toy helicopter to buy time.

My daughter rejoins us in the bathroom. "The cat did something really gross on the floor," she tells me, flatly. **

But despite a few bumps in the road this morning, I feel so much better. Last night I slept long and well, no drugs nor booze nor congested nose nor night-terrors (although, sadly, a few instances of getting up to spit blood in the sink - just a nuisance, not really much of a disruption). And today the world is washed in new colors. Steam rises from the kitchen sink with the familiar joyful energy, I see my house again and restore order. My children crawl all over me, go through my purse, shout suggestions for our day's plans.

Thank you, universe.

* One of the best stories in our lore was my sister's ex-John's cat - I don't remember the animal's name - who literally said, "Oh no!" twice before vomiting behind a couch. I'm told there were two witnesses. John's impersonation of it was hilarious and eerily, entirely believable.

** Blackie had, in fact, deposited a not-too-gross hairball on the floor that Sophie's keen eye had spied immediately. And as it turned out, Sophie and Blackie had also only made it "outside" as far as the laundry room, where the cat pissed on the floor, not able to access her litter box nor the bushes. Therefore it was a total of three bodily messes, none of them mine and two of them feline, I'd already dealt with before 8:30 AM this morning.

Labels: gratitude, illness, kitty, Nels, Sophie

Dogshit is a mysterious phenomena. Perhaps, if explored in a macrocosmic way, it is more predictable than I've experienced; studied on a global chaos-theory level both the intensity, size, and regularity of dogshit deposits found in urban areas reveals a dotted-swiss pattern that loses any irregularities or in distribution and incidence. But in my studies - involuntary ones, I might add - I have yet to find any magic formula or even guestimation to help predict and avoid this particular bane of my existance. It existed in Port Townsend in mysterious, irregular manner; and despite my friend Abbi's surprised observance she didn't see it anywhere while visiting us, it exists here in HQX, too.

Take my parents' yard. All my life I have been confused whether it was a Shangri-la or shits-a-lot. The yard is, due to the sixty-odd-and-up inches of rain a year in Grays Harbor, almost perennially lush and green, expansive, huddled with beautiful flowers and trees and singing leaves. Usually the kind of yard you'd like to run in, arms out and dirndl twirling, belting out song. Many a day and night we've piled leaves, rolled in the verdant, scented grass - greener and more vital here than anyplace I've been - to chew on blades while talking about nothing in particular and having nowhere to go. Then again sometimes amidst the greenery lurk foul, monstrous fecal landmines so voluminous they seem to have emerged from nothing smaller than the ratty ass of a bloated Clydesdale. One time in high school my friend Zoe (or maybe it was Shannon) brought in on her shoe so much shit from the yard that even after (unknowingly) laying down tracks on the porch, entry, kitchen and living room there was STILL enough on the shoe for the other girl (again, I can't remember who delivered and who was sullied) to slip on a last and fatally thick track about an inch deep and two feet long somehow spread over my parents' tasteful charcoal-and-rose living room carpet.

This season's latest featured nugget-land is a small tab of city sidewalk at my parents' front entrance, the entrance generally used the least. Despite a fair amount of rain this season a peppering of tiny but loathesome turds seems to always accompany this little patch, both on the concrete itself and winking from behind blade of grass or clump of lawn clipping. This afternoon, too busy feeling sick, herding children inside for an ice cream cone, trying to struggle my daughter - just having received three booster shots which are worse for a fully-sentient child who knows what it means than the two-month baby sitting chubby, cheerful, and unknowing in your arms - struggle my daughter into her hoodie, I'm afraid I wasn't thinking about this patch of lawn. It wasn't until later, sitting on my parents leather sofa with my foot characteristically tucked under my ass and flipping through a tattered copy of Patriot Games that I suddenly became aware someone - oh God, let it not be one of my children - someone had stepped in some foul slimy mustard-brown dog-ass concoction. Well, guess what? It wasn't my children. Guess what else? Of course it was the foot I was sitting on.

Our recent mental flirtations on adopting a dog of our own have once again ebbed into nothingness.

Thanks to nature's healing processes, more rest (which in turn, was accomplished by the help of others: primarily to my husband but also my mother, my brother, my friend Amy, and possibly, but doubtfully, my father), the good doctor's good advice, and whatever is in Afrin - I am feeling much, although not all the way better. Today I was able to cope with help from aforementioned Amy (who watched Nels for a few hours this morning) and my husband worked a full day. Thank God.

Labels: illness, shit

I can't believe how hard it is for me to be sick. If I'm "cute" sick, like for a day or so (which is the normal routine for me), it's a minor inconvenience I get to bitch about. But this time, as it would happen, I got sick bad. Sick where I'm prone for an evening, then the next afternoon and evening, then a day, then another day, then I'm worried, and I can't do much anything without feeling mighty dizzy afterwards. On my back with a throbbing headache and a stiff throat, reading interminably, unable to do more than one minor physical task (maybe take a bath, then lay back down on the couch still in a towel with wet hair), not well enough to cook, let alone care for my kids. My husband stays home, we shuffle the kids' to my mom, and yeah, some of the time I have them while I'm dizzy with fever. P.S. this wasn't as bad as the bout of strep and you will hear me give a prayer of thanks I am not that sick again.

Being thusly compromised if ANYthing else goes wrong, it feels like a crushing blow. I'm trying not to feel hurt, overwhelmed, upset, devastated. What with moving recently, and some of my FOO's garbage (my parents each seem unsympathetic and disbelieving that I am actually rather ill; they seem to view this as a voluntary vacation I'm taking) and some other hurtful mini-drama here or there (I'm considering hipmama-cide but can't figure out how to do it), it just fucking sucks.

And with that I'm done with my 15 self-allotted computer-time minutes and am going to try to get some coma sleep.

Labels: burnout, illness

Due to a combined positive life circumstance of being in a more brain-ready place, and a negative life circumstance of being sick enough to warrant significant couch-time, I have been reading books like mad.

Yesterday I finished Ariel Levy's Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture (which I loaned to my mother today) and today I started Donna Tarrt's The Secret History (her following effort, The Little Friend, I count as one of my all-time favorite books). I liked Levy's book and was not surprised to see it was her first, her previous writings comprised mostly of articles and essays. The entire thing felt like a long, well-written series of articles on a related subject. A sort of mini-Naomi Wolf. I look forward to her next effort and yeah, her book changed my opinions.

Now on to Caleb Carr's The Italian Secretary: A Further Adventure of Sherlock Holmes.

Labels: books, illness

I have been very sick and somehow only equipped with very mediocre medicine and some vodka to help me sleep (it does, as best I can). This fell right on top of a visit over the weekend from PT gal-pal Abbi and her two daughters. I was about half decent hostess (activities included: a trip to the Olympia Farmer's Market and the uber-crunchy Blue Heron Bakery, the Bowerman Basin bird walk, and swimming at the Y) - and half coma-on-the-couch while Ralph and Abbi cooked and kid-wrangled. The amount of sleep I did get surely helped and is probably the only reason I am able to function (partially) for half of today before my mother takes the children, a childcare blessing Ralph acquired for me via phonecall last night.

OK, I have to go cough up some more blood now and try to survive until noon.

Labels: friends, illness

Last night was a small slice of hell. Our two children both awoke vomiting at about 1 AM. It continued through the night. As Ralph and I dealt with this drama we got in an argument. Because of course! What else do we need. After about forty-five solid minutes of vomit detail Ralph and Nels went back to bed and I spent until 4:30 AM up with my daughter, cleaning bedding, giving her a bath, helping her vomit, and trying (successfully) not to cry. About every thirty minutes thereafter Sophie and I slept-talked through her illness; she would fidget, I'd say, "Do you have to puke?" and her voice would come back crystal-clear and small and precise and duck-like: "Not quite yet." Then she'd say, "Mama, I have to puke," and I'd whisk her over to the floor where her vassal awaits. After she was done I'd wipe her mouth and go flush and rinse the barf-tub. Rinse and repeat, all night. Surprisingly, I really did sleep pretty well once we got this rhythm down.

And this morning while Sophie continues to dry-heave on the hour, Nels so far has not thrown up since last night. This makes the amount of times he's vomited in his lifetime, um... once? That boy keeps stuff down.

The amount of foul-smelling laundry, bedding, towels and clothes I have this morning is overwhelming. And here I am with my son on my lap typing and smelling puke in his hair and hoping to God I don't get whatever it is they got. We have company coming over for the weekend - one of my best friends, her daughter, and their two dogs. Needless to say my guest preparations are set back a bit (I did disclose to my friend).

Readers, if you're even reading this far, I have two sick kids and a lot of vomit and am feeling very alone.

Labels: chaos, illness

I'm in a black mood today. Correction: I was in a black mood.

This morning as my children and I came downstairs, me with a huge pile of laundry on one hip and a wailing Nels holding my other hand, I heard the distinctive sound of my daughter vomitting on the floor. You know, you know what the sound is split seconds before you identify it? For a confused moment you're thinking, Did my child pee her pants? but you already know the answer is "No", so your mind then moves on to ... damnit. Puke.

Luckily we taught Sophtie to be a champion puker long ago so she was straightened out in no time (a quick bath, two pigtails so she could vomit unhindered). And life continued on, badly. It seemed stuffy and unwelcome in the family home - like my parents no longer want us (specifically, me) here; like we all need to get out of the house but they really don't all that much so I do (sick child and all) - a visit to the library, not so bad.

Other lowlights: trouble with Ralph. Making playdough for my children's school. This fucking sucked. My brother - saintly - helped me. It involved a lot of mess and a lot of kneading and I didn't even get anything to eat out of that. Oh, and of course my daughter puking, again and again. This afternoon as I dispassionately hold back her hair, "Yeah, that looks like your ice cream and peanut butter." She pukes in the car while waiting for drive-through coffee - "luckily" in my husband's coat.

On the other hand, this evening my husband, mom, and I watched Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan and during the naked hotel / fight scene my mom and I were laughing so hard, and for so long, it was painful.

Let's hope tomorrow continues on in that vein. Okay?

Labels: family life, film, FOO, Grazdma, hilarity, illness, Sophie

I just heard from the lab: strep throat. Despite the original doctor telling me he was ninety percent sure it wasn't (this was the thing I kept repeating in my head as my throat swelled and my body ached and I rushed headlong into feeling worse and worse) and despite feeling silly I was having so much trouble. But God. It was as bad as I've ever heard strep can be. Now I'm so glad I we