Dozens of hand-mailed cards still adorn the entryway of my home. I have looked over them for a couple of months now with an odd combination of fondness and guilt. No, it's not just you, so please don't feel left out. I didn't mail one card this year. :( I'm late. I know. I had several false starts at writing. I had a nearly completed letter that was deleted when my two year-old tapped my phone at exactly the wrong moment. But I am writing within the octave of Candlemas, the feast of the Presentation, the "old school" end of the Christmas season.... right?
If Baby Jesus is still involved, it must still be Christmas, right? (Right?)
(Incidentally, I already received a gift of candles due to my mention of this somewhat obscure feast in my last post. Given this, I feel it necessary to inform everyone of the even less known feast of "Chocolatemas" which occurs on the Sunday after Candlemas. This is the feast where readers give chocolate (the darker the better) to their favorite bloggers. It just started. Gotta love Pope Francis.) Yes, I know that's a ridiculous excuse. But I do have others. Such as: But but but we just took the tree down! Because my two year old loved it like a pet, and showed it to everyone who came in with the greatest of pride and self-importance. Her righteous anger at her father bringing the beloved pile of sticks outside (wa ha ha) is voiced frequently.
Now picture this with no green. You got it.
Also: my laptop was broken for a month and ate the first version of this annual letter, and the Norovirus raged through our home in December. I'm sure the first version was the best too... But those aren't the best reasons. The truth is.... Traditionally I write humorous letters for Christmas. I try to pull out all the stops to make people laugh at the antics of the Dancause family. And that's just harder to do when you find you're looking back on the worst year of your life. I delayed and hoped to find the words to make things more cheerful. Now it's February, and... we gotta move on or it will be Lent. (Doesn't "Pre-Lent" start next week? Anyhoo...) So here's the quick and dirty version I don't really have the heart to fully humorize: 2013 began and ended with illness. It started with moderate to severe morning sickness, continued through the slow renovation of our house from five rooms to a decadent sixth: all to welcome a little someone who never got to see it. Spring began with a death, a pregnancy ended with the presentation of a white satin, rectangular box, buried with rose petals and I don't know how many tears.
Summer wore on while I learned to ride the tidal wave of grief, and found meaning by working in a hospital helping others deal with loss. With a strongly renewed sense of "why wait?" I pursued my love of theater in the fall, and was happily selected to play Mrs. Crachitt in a local and quite large Christmas Carol production, with my daughters as fellow Crachitts and past, future, and present tense ghosts.
My girl (Annemarie) is the smiling boy in the hat (Peter Crachitt)
In the winter, I went directly from the show into the worst stomach bug I've ever encountered, going through my family on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and putting me into the hospital the day afterwards. I got out just in time for 2014 to begin, and have battled chronic pain ever since... getting slowly and steadily better. I did have a quote chosen for a calendar, and an abstract art painting was done to illustrate it. Here is August 2014's rendition from Small Bird Studios:
So... I've had better years. Now to bring some light to the lighter things: Annemarie
is at that blessed age where she's old enough to be really (really) helpful. And for someone with inborn super-maternal instincts, that age is 11; she's quickly making up for my long months of seclusion while she was a preemie. No, that's not why I started homeschooling her this year but... let's just say we are all thriving with this new education set-up. She has already had several offers to be a mother's helper; when I get tired of her help, I'll let you know. ;D She's joined a hand-bell choir and is thoroughly enjoying two homeschool "co-ops" that teach stuff I'm nervous about. Like chemistry.
Sweet and just as dear 10 year-old Claire is in public school--just to assure I am totally diverse-- and is acing everything there with all her loomed jewelry-clad friends... she's turning out to be the trophy-collecting type
After her latest ballet performance
(By "acing" I humbly mean her report card says, after all the "exceeds expectation" marks, "Claire is an inspiration." Wondering what this might mean, I congratulated Claire, and didn't put it on my status because it sounds worse than "My honor student trumps your honor student." So I just saved the news for my "Candlemas" letter.) In other news, she sings opera-style, and plays the harp... which sounds so lovely even while in practice mode... Which is a good thing. Cecilia is loud. And four. Mostly loud.
She likes things that are loud, like tap shoes and microphones. A hedonist who needs to be coaxed out of sweatpants and a princess who adores all things pink and sparkly and all creatures small and tiny, Cecilia has a huge heart to go with her strong will. She's a handful of hilarity. And yes, this is would be considered a normal "pose" for her:
Fliss complements her perfectly, and is the quiet dainty companion of her twice-her-size and age older sister.
With a absurdly detailed vocabulary, Felicity holds her own as the youngest. Whenever I return home from an appointment, she says, "Mom, welcome to my house!" her tiny hand making a sweeping gesture. Gracious, and gentle, and all that is sweet, Fliss has been such a comfort to me during a year where I really needed a small someone to hold.
This year, I feel led to also mention that I have a five year-old named Gabriel and and 5 month-old named Perpetua who have successfully completed their earthly tasks, kids I'm also very proud of and who look after us solicitously from their most excellent viewpoint. And that aspect of this reality is really, really cool.
And we busy, tired parents of six? Dan works in Providence and will soon vacation in Williamsburg with the rest of us. He's rapidly becoming less and less of the man he once was, since he braved an extreme hospital-run liquid diet. We are very proud of him.
Okay this is him in college (on the banks of the Jordan River, actually), but wait: actual "after" pictures to come!! :D And it seems I'm one of those poor but artsy sorts now.... Though I can't actually draw to save my life. This doesn't necessarily stop my from trying. Like this charming illustration:
Primarily a dish-washing, laundry-driving, mini van-driving mom, I also play writer, editor, photographer, and philanthropist. Mostly I blog here, but I do freelance the occasional article, was recently called upon to edit a book (!) and spend quite a bit of time in various meetings, informational sessions, and training events at Women and Infants Hospital, working towards making it a more sensitive place to babies who don't have time to stay. I'm also very casually a distributor for the non-toxic Ava Anderson products I'm passionate about using now (feel free to buy a lip gloss or glass cleaner and make my day right here, using party # 21945), and very actively into theater these days. Seems I'm trying to repress my inner hotel manager... that's the field my high school career test indicated I should pursue. HA! Speaking of theater, if you interested, kindly ask me about tickets: I'm required to sell a certain number for an "Annie" musical in the first two weekends of May, where I'll be playing Grace Farrell. My children will be maids, Hooverville citizens, and "the lovely Boylan sisters," while my husband (oh it's really too awesome!:) will be Daddy Warbucks. We are now "that" family that sings musical numbers while dancing around with brooms and feather dusters. Just did that a few minutes ago actually. I will thoroughly enjoy playing the personal secretary of a billionaire, on stage, with my tuxedo-clad husband.
This is not us. Yet.
Feel free to give us the opportunity of showing off our talents and/or making complete fools of ourselves for your amusement. Either way, it will be fun. Already, this year looks so much better than the last. :) I'm very proud of what God has led me to do and grateful I can do it; despite the hardships of this year, we have very much felt His love and caring presence even in--actually particularly in--the dark times. I hope this letter finds you proud, grateful, and well as well, launched into a 2014 that will be much better than what came before. May you feel how close He is: Emmanual, every day of the year.
1. I'm seriously ticked off. You know when you go to a friend's product party, intending to buy one polite thing but--primarily, let's face it--you're there to socialize? And then, under the influence of friends, friends' really nice wine, and the approaching hour of midnight on the last day of the month before the "specials" cease to exist... you sign on as a consultant? And then you're immediately hailed as part of a team and invited to a pow-wow meeting on Monday night... :) But that's not what I'm annoyed about. 2. Okay, I have zero intention of asking anyone to host, or leading a home party, like, ever again. No amount of well-intentioned hype, spirit of camaraderie, or general goodwill could lead me down the (for me) shudder-filled path of a "home business." Not that I have anything against those who enjoy and succeed at these pursuits; I applaud and wish them the very best! (That goes for all you lovely ladies in my "upline" who may read this!) But for my more timid self, I truly signed on just to get a good deal on cleaning, hygiene, and beauty products that aren't filled with toxic substances. Which is why I'm annoyed. 3. Granted, I'm also annoyed at the whole prospect of "fear-based" marketing. "Buy this or die of cancer" is far from a model business slogan. (No, that's not a real business slogan... at least I sure hope not.) But I do buy into frustration with unconscionable American greed. I am annoyed, for instance, that (apparently) companies like Johnson & Johnson make a cleaner, healthier version of their products for Europe as demanded by the EU, but sell a much less safe (and cheaper to make) version of stuff like oh, baby lotion, in the U.S. Take this interesting quote, for example: The EU Cosmetics Directive . . . bans 1,328 chemicals from cosmetics; the U.S. FDA has banned or restricted only 11.
Yuk!
I won't go into it all here, but here's one that really got me: "Fragrance." It seems that any time you see "fragrance" on a bottle, it's a "trade secret" word. Which means that--legally--any number of toxic chemicals can be concealed under that word: "More than 75% of the time, there are phthalates present [when "fragrance" is listed] which are known endocrine disruptors, and are linked to birth defects, breast cancer, infertility, liver cancer, diabetes, obesity, autism, and ADHD during pregnancy." (Dr. Landrigan, Mt. Sinai, Children's Environmental Health Center) 4. No I don't really know how to pronounce "phthalates," but I understood the other stuff. Unless they mean that pregnant women become ADHD... that part is a little unclear. And a little funny. But either way, on a personal level, I'm royally annoyed that I've been spraying "fragrance" straight on my pulse points during every pregnancy. Especially because absorption through the skin is the quickest way to the bloodstream. And that's just the tip of the iceberg really; dozens of actually listed ingredients on our soaps and lotions and lipsticks are linked to lovely things like reproductive toxicity, immune dysfunction, are known carcinogens, etc, etc, etc. And these ingredients simply don't have to be there. In the end, I'd like to die of something not caused by a detergent I was using on my dishes. Ya know? 5. Yes, yes, I DO hate fear-based selling. As a practical, penny-pinching mom... I harbor a deep fondness and appreciation for 99 cent shampoos. I love the idea of organic fruits right up until the moment there's an awesome sale on regular pesticide-flavored strawberries. I refuse to worry about everything. Like my mother so benignly would say, "Well, everyone has to die from something." The healthiest, most organically-fed, well-exercised individual could easily die from an gravity-attracted coconut on a Hawaiian vacation, right? Still, if one can avoid using potentially dangerous products and buying from those who manufacture them... that's a good thing. Safe products all manufactured in the U.S.... that's a positive thing to sell. 6. Most of the reason I hated being a "consultant" in my former business endeavors was that I never could truly believe, despite many, many pep talks and team conference calls, that the product I was hawking was absolutely the best for everyone I encountered. Try as I might, I did not--in the end--feel I was "doing people a favor." So I stopped. But this Ava Anderson stuff... well, it comes a lot closer to that reality of being "best." No, not just because it's from Rhode Island and was founded by passionate 14 year-old girl bent on saving the world. :) I've tried these products--from window cleaners to lip glosses--and they are, simply, great. Particularly their legendary diaper cream, which has been known to also heal eczema and even work as a deodorant. Almost as good as Shimmer: a floor wax AND a dessert topping... :D Therefore, when I can afford to, I will buy these products, and I will be available for others--who would otherwise search in vain for it's equivalent on store shelves--to purchase it through me. Because, unless you have an allergy to any of the clearly listed ingredients, these things aren't going to hurt you. Unless you massage lotion directly onto your eyeballs I suppose... don't recommend that. All ingredients can be found listed... you could pretty much eat these products though no, I don't recommend that either. 7. In sum: Sales will not be a new focus for my blog. But as a stay-at-home homeschooling mom with 1.5 graduate degrees, who spends the majority of her "free" time in volunteer work at hospitals, acting "pro bono" in community theater, and writing an ad-absent blog for free... It wouldn't hurt me if you browsed and shopped here. Use "party" ID number 21945 during the month of February. And--best of all--these purchases won't hurt you either. For real. Everythingsmells good, looks good, is better than the stuff you find at Whole Foods, and way nicer than the homemade bug repellent you're currently mixing at your kitchen sink. And if your homemade cucumber flower anti-aging extract is indeed better, it's returnable. :) Thank you for your support, for looking around, spreading the word about using safer products from conscientious small companies, and helping me avoid the temptation of putting my 11 year old who looks 15 into the work force. ;)
I will now continue with my long-overdue regularly-scheduled program: finishing my annual Christmas letter. In February. Oh the shame. A new all-time low. In my defense: my Christmas tree is still up! (I know, I know, I know...) Okay, I'll attend to the fire hazard first. Happy Candlemas to you all! :)
My daughters got a bunch of minor roles: "Annette," "Sophie," maids, townspeople, and two parts of a singing trio of girls "The Boylan Sisters."
I'm Grace Ferrell, haha! Woo. Should be able to pull it off with a combo of caffeine, adrenaline, a couple pills, the Dr. Scholls version of high heels, and tips from Wiki How. No doubt. :P
And my husband was cast as Daddy Warbucks. No news yet on whether baldness will be necessary.
Thank you, Google Images. ROFL
I'm delighted that while winter turns to spring, we'll have this very unique family activity to work on, with the preschoolers tagging along to be watched by various orphans and staff. My little angels up there have a tremendous sense of humor, huh?
"Think we can get our parents to do it?" "With MOM? Ha! Totally..."
I need to confirm that the following are, in fact, facts for Seven Quick Takes:
1. I'm 36 now! :S Oy. But you know, it has to be better than 35--which for me was thoroughly unrecommendable--so I'm looking forward to it.
Went really crazy with the partying this year: I visited both sets of grandparents, went out to dinner with my parents, played chess with my kids, and got pj's with feet (a blanket sleeper, I think they're called) from my husband. (No, I haven't worn them since I was a tween... were there even "tweens" back in the 90's? hmmmm).
Note roll of "napkins" and ketchup bottle in background. Classay....
Of course, that happened on Monday. It's now... Thursday, last I checked. I think. It's all kinda blending into one long, cold, indoor day. I mean, I really want to be a hardy New Englander and not mind but... golly. This white stuff it's like... cold.
On the plus side,
2. I finally finished reading Prince Caspian to my kids. The girls have actually been using their art supplies. Finger puppets multiply throughout our home. Sweetly scribbled notes and drawings cover my refrigerator door, sticking out at odd angles, mingled with old recipes and November's school lunch calendar.
3. The tree is still up. With nice crisp needles that sprinkle a welcome carpet on the floor whenever you stop to admire a tiny, burnt-out bulb. Christmas cards still decorate my doorway. I know, I know. And I haven't even finished my annual Christmas letter yet. I'm perilously close though.... And no, I didn't send out a single card this year. :S
4. I did audition for the role of Ms. Hannigan in "Annie". My kids wanted to try another play, there were adult roles available, and hey if I have to be there anyway... So I practiced the song "Little Girls" under my breath in the bathroom and loudly in the rare moments alone in the car.
I say "alone" because when I attempted to sing it in front of my four year-old, well... she was confused. And with her speech as it currently is--with all the 'L's" sounding like "Y's"--she was heard to be singing "Yucky me, yucky me, look at what I'm dripping with" around the house. So I stopped that.
5. The audition was successful. Sort of. I walked in, introduced myself to the row of faces behind the conference table, sang my song, and was handed the script. A script for "Grace."
"Please read for her; you'd be perfect..." As the sweet-as-pie secretary to a billionaire who goes to adopt Annie.
Can't be mean even when I try I guess. :S Tune in next time to see if I get the role. And if my children get to become orphans. And if my husband gets to become Daddy Warbucks. Because
6. My husband is auditioning for the role of Daddy Warbucks. Tomorrow night.
Tee hee. Hee. :D
7. To date, I have not been nominated for any blog recognition. And this is okay. I will consistently continue to blog anywhere from twice a day to twice a month, regardless, as I shoot for twice a week. I heartily congratulate the many awesome bloggers who made it in, including the hostess of this link-up! :)
Mind you, it would also be okay for me, I mean--sometime--if such a nomination occurred. I wouldn't complain. I will similarly accept nominations for "Extreme Makeover Home Edition" and /or any sweepstakes where the prize is "Free House Sweeping For a Year" or "Complimentary Coffee Delivery For a Week." Ya know, forget blog awards: that last would be supremely awesome. Seriously, why doesn't Dunkin Donuts deliver? For the days you are too caffeine deprived to remember to make and consume a caffeinated beverage? Like today?
Ever find yourself begging a lukewarm, brown beverage in a mug: "Please work. Please, please work"?
Me neither. ;)
During the writing of this post, Shaun the Sheep was running on a continual loop. A meatball sub was consumed from the inside out by the resident toddler. On the couch. A four year old dressed as half-angel, half-Elmo,
This was before wings were added...
crowned me with a "Teewawa."
Despite my new-found royal standing and while rocking my plastic princess bling, I got up no less than five times during this post: once to change a diaper, once to settle a squabble over who got the longer pencil, once to help wipe after a successful potty experience, once to remove my oldest from the world of Minecraft, and once to remove meatballs and sauce from between couch cushions.
The nasty part of me wants to drop off five preschoolers at Amy Glass's house to watch as she goes about the easy task of caring for them. The more virtuous part of me is pleased such women will not get to raise the next generation, like I get to do, so naa naa naa... Okay, fine, I'll behave and just pray for her enlightenment, conversion, initiation into reality, etc. :)
Thanks for all your prayers for me, too. I'm down to two pills a day for my creaky joints, which is fabulous for now. This tree might, might actually leave by next week...
"Who shall find a valiant woman? Far and from the uttermost coasts is the price of her." Proverbs 31:10
I'm currently engaging in a guilty pleasure and social faux-pas: blogging on my phone, held under a table at a large meeting. The topic is "Celebrating Diversity." The location is Women & Infants Hospital.
We've hit the doldrums in the Council Summit. It started off well: awards were given to stellar hospital workers, a touching personal statement was shared about a doctor who had grown up in foster care and been inspired by kindness along the way. And there was another beautiful story of homeless mom of four, a victim of abuse, whose nurses of her 24-week baby heard her plight and found her help. Now an OB nurse, she left the podium to a thunderous standing ovation, tears shed by many.
But now... we're looking at statistics. For an hour. The speaker is literally bribing us with the reward of M&M's in return for input.
Any input.
So I decided to say hi to y'all. And I snuck away to buy a coffee (when I got back, a full buffet has been laid out... Oh well.) I pulled out the debit card I share with my husband. It's a Patriots card.
My barista whooped. "Oh the Broncos have nuthin' on us!"
I responded with the hum/grunt-and-smile I have perfected for such instances. I assume he was talking about the team the Pats will play in... The Super Bowl, I assume? ;)
Wandering the corridors back to the meeting, I nearly walked into a large poster that displayed something much more impressive. My babies.
I feel blessed to be part of bringing good out of loss, the opportunity to improve the situations of many, many mothers yet to give birth here.
I'm watching the Patriots' playoff's game out of the corner of my drooping eyes, which is the most enthusiasm I can muster for overpaid men playing a game with a ball. Okay fine, I'll be mildly excited if they make it to the Superbowl. But only mildly.
And... they made it. yay.
;D
Oh yes. And here's the most productive thing I did this week: took my daughter to get a haircut. With someone else doing the work. :) Yep, that's all, folks.
Wrapped in my husband's bathrobe, which is marvelously large, I had stationed myself on the coach with my newly fixed laptop (yayyyyy!!) to put the finishing touches on a nice, humorous Christmas letter on this last official day of the Christmas season (by some accounts at least).
But after an hour of frowning and furious typing, I've ended my fevered search for my Christmas letter... I don't know where it went. I remember writing it, but I can't find it in any email or draft folder or document I own.
Weeiirrrrd.
I remember writing it!!! Honestly, I do. Vaguely, and not well enough to recreate, but I remember tapping it out with my thumbs on the notepad section of my phone while I waited for this thing to be fixed. And it's disappeared into the ether.
Growwwwlllll
As a consolation prize--while I recreate whatever my original masterpiece might have been--here's some of my drunk writing. You see some people drunk dial or drunk text. I drunk write. Okay, not "drunk" write, just a few morphine-like pills to the wind at the time. Naturally, this piece of literature was saved just fine:
Entitled "Breaking Up With An Old Friend"
(oh help! I have notebooks of stories about inanimate objects from my boring long days of high school. Worst one I can remember was a conversation between ice cubes. Having unpleasant flashbacks... here goes nothing:)
"I'm leaving you. And I miss you already. I miss your reassuring rattle in my purse, and your steady presence on my bed stand, dear Advil.
But it has come to my attention that you've hurt me as much as you've helped me. Therefore, I'm leaving you, and will be shortly be taking up with a bigger, stronger med, who I hope will treat me better than you... while still being helpful.
Thank you for allowing me to dance in college, to wait on tables, clean nursing homes, teach for hours, and pick up several sizable children. I will remember you with a guarded fondness.
Your former devotee."
Sniff... REALLY?? LOL Oh my. Oh I must look through some of these drafts, fantastic stuff... Stupid, but at least I seem to have been attempting humor. And the best news of all: this relationship of about 18 years has been restored! Advil and I are back together. Narcotics and opiates and Celebrex and ashwagandha just isn't the same as plain old ibuprofen.
Speaking of Celebrex, this was rated one of the drug's stupidest commercials ever; someone suggested it should be run during Shark Week. :D Start screaming now...
Though I'm not getting any anti-inflammatory help, I'm getting pretty much everything else ashwagandha offers. Oh it cures problems you didn't know you had folks; it's the all-bird-slaying-rock... With that and a gluten-free diet, immortality is assured!! :P
Signing off before I get sarcastic, or wax poetic on medication again... Oh yes, and if someone got an email with the subject "2013 Xmas Letter" and lots of mentions of "Cecilia," kindly send it back to me... St. Anthony, help me find my mind...
Well, keeping company with pain anyway. We're old acquaintances, but we usually have more of an understanding with each other than right now. And it's not me that's being unreasonable...
I've been with this unfortunate close friend since the weather turned cold months ago, just like it did for many seniors in New England. Most of the time, I don't notice it much and neither would anyone around me: the underlying back aches, stomach upsets, and occasional muscle spasms. Once in awhile, I acknowledge its presence with a grim "S'up?" and throw a couple Advil at it and move on. Until a couple weeks ago.
The day after our final bows to combined thousands of viewers in the Christmas Carol (and yes, I'm very thankful it wasn't a moment before then), my daughter Claire evidenced the dreaded stomach bug. Of course, I hoped--somehow--that maybe it was something she ate. Chocolate and goodies abound this time of year after all. And the next day, Monday, all were well. I kept wrapping and baking cookies.
The morning of Christmas Eve, I packed all four girls in the car to pick up family portraits we'd taken at Target and to get some more scotch tape. In a highly festive mood, I treated them all to munchkins and me to a coffee. Which turned out to be an absolutely awful idea.
After some unusual sounds from the back seat, I heard, "Oh Mommy... I'm so sorry for spitting the munchkin at you." A quick glance led to a quick park and a manic search for wipes, plastic bags, and changes of clothing. Since none of the latter were to be had, I ran into Target, grabbed the pics without a glance, rifled through the clearance rack, and found a $4.88 pair of bright purple sweatpants with fireworks on them... a pair Cecilia now, naturally, tries to wear every morning and to church on Sunday.
She was almost clean, short of an immediate bath at home. I had dissembled the car seat, had everything soiled sorted out in grocery shopping bags for the laundry. I was indulging in wipes and Purell myself when my sweet two year old, with a look of utter confusion, began to "spit" her treat out at me too.
"Oh. You cwean me? I sorry too..." And I was a thousand times sorrier.
We were sick for Christmas.
I've been lucky and spoiled my entire life when it comes to Christmas. No one has ever been ill for that holiday, aside from the occasional cold. One year, my dad had a slight fever. Another year, my mom broke her arm after the event. But Christmas itself, year in and year out, whether I'd been living down the street or in Austria the week before, always found us together in the same living room, with the same dreadful cassette tape of Harry Belafonte droning out songs, exchanging gifts and lots of laughter with my very amusing family. Here, you deserve to treat yourself to a listen :D
After repeating the same cleaning procedures in the cold, an hour later with two sleepy little ones and two sobered older ones, I was swiftly heading to washing machine and bath tub. And making calls saying: "We can't be there for Christmas."
It was sad. But given the events of this year, I was already sad. And this was certainly... distracting.
My hopes that this would prove a "kiddie" virus disappeared just before my husband was about to head to midnight mass. In that sweet moment when all are sleeping snug of their beds with visions of wellness dancing in their heads, while I was setting gifts under the sparkling tree, my poor spouse dashed--not to the car--but to the single and most occupied seat in the house.
Oh. Dear.
Rather than waking up Christmas morning to mourn the fact that no newborn was there to experience her first wrapping paper, I had to dash to help my eldest, whose ticket had been pulled by the Norwalk virus. At 10:30 Christmas morning, I was holding her hand and brushing back her hair in the bathroom. It seemed to strike the older ones the hardest... which did not bode well.
In a daze, some gifts were open, thanks were mumbled. I still can't find some of the things we opened that day. Kids were laid out on couches with appropriate buckets and electrolyte-laden, well-labeled drinks. With the necessity of distraction apparent, we watched many Christmas movies. After a dinner of saltines, we sang carols together.
It was still Christmas. There was still joy at the birth of the Lord. Felicity toddled around with Baby Jesus from the nativity set, giving Him kisses and feeding him applesauce.
As the day progressed, aww I knew, but I hoped against hope. At one point I was walking the house with a bottle of bleach in one hand and a bag "just in case" for myself with the other. But just before dawn on the 26th, my number was up.
And stayed up for a long, long time.
My phobia about germs is due to this very virus. While for most it's an extremely unpleasant 24 hour event... Because of Crohn's, when I get this bug, it's an automatic trip to the ER for fluids. I can't stop puking without medical intervention. And darn it and the absurd co-pays, this time, the walk-in clinic wasn't enough. I was informed pleasantly by a guy in a lab coat, "Your white blood cell counts are concerning enough that we're calling an ambulance."
I still have the scar from where I pulled up without heed to my IV. After hours of all kinds of unpleasant depletions, I wasn't "all there" anymore. Looking blankly at the blood flowing impressively down my arm, I mumbled something like, "Nononono insurance expensive husband drive. You sure? Be okay..." And fell back on the cot to stare at the wall again.
I mostly remember that day a lot of pain, a lot of confusion, and the sheer misery of constant nausea. I remember it was hard to breathe through the mask, and that I suddenly was in the car. A distinct lack of any turtle doves or pear-tree perching partridges.
My husband had picked me up, and ignored my cogent arguments to "Want go home rest be kay ooooo errrrr ugh." I've never gotten morphine so fast upon entering a hospital. Hyperventalating works, so there's a tip. Declaring your pain level to be "over 7" is another. Dan knowing the doctor through work didn't hurt either.
A CT scan showed that my stomach and intestines had swollen to a grotesque degree due to a bizarre secondary infection. Which would explain all those pesky hot knives feelings.
I was admitted, and wheeled behind a curtain beside my new roommate for days of morphine. And days of listening to her shout obscenities at the staff and talk to her cat on the phone, demanding to go back on cocaine.
I can't say I enjoyed the rest. The hospital liked to give me morphine more than I liked to receive it. When I started to mention the RA in my increasingly annoyed back, they were most unimpressed. Anything anti-inflammatory would hurt my stomach, and that was the main concern. I needed more antibiotics. My white cell counts needed to go down, my red cell counts needed to go up. My GI specialists were in Bermuda. I just wanted to go home.
Despite my protests at contagion, my sweet mom and dad brought flowers, my awesome friends brought chocolate which I was happy to just hold and smell, and even brought a board game which they essentially let me win. They left encouraging notes on my board:
Another highlight was the sad and amusing night where an elderly gentlemen--who was obviously well-educated but unhappily senile--raced through the halls yelling, "You, sir, shall deliver my wallet back promptly or I will inform the police!" This was said while security were actually in hot pursuit, trying to keep him in his room with the least possible use of force, assuring him they would protect him from all his imagined fears. I joined some fellow johnny-clad patients to watch the proceedings in the hall. Ah, here's my one hospital selfie in johnny:
One fragile woman across the way hung onto her IV pole and looked on gleefully while I stopped watching: the elderly man forswore his hospital gown and continued, now streaking, eluding and swiping at authorities. She giggled: "It's the only entertainment we get, eh?"
Changing the topic, I asked what brought her here. In her early 40's, she also has Crohn's, and told me she comes every 10 weeks to the hospital now, after several surgeries. She has a "bag." Her daughter now has the disease, vomiting daily. Her daughter is 8.
Chatting in quiet voices in those wee hours of morning, I felt so very badly for her. And I felt so very lucky. I promised my prayers. I staggered back to my room, and pressed the button for my nurse, a British gentleman from Liverpool. Ostensibly for pain medicine, but also just to hear him talk. To hear anyone talk, anyone who was healthy, undrugged, and unafraid.
I was happy to receive the anointing of the sick. I thought of posting that on my Facebook status for all of 23 seconds and then realized how wildly dire that would sound. :)
I wanted to blog, but my laptop's screen had broken. I would hold my I-Whatever up in bed, try to make the image stop turning, and put it down because I was too dizzy.
It gradually improved. I was put back on solids after some days, and eventually it didn't feel like my insides were getting scraped raw after I swallowed. I got a new roommate: a wealthy elderly woman from Cumberland, getting treated for a bloodclot. We'd pull back the dividing curtain, sip apple juice and watch the news together, joking about our commodes, illness as the great equalizer.
Four days later, I got out of the hospital and got to see my kids' faces outside of Facetime. I had a catch-up Christmas with my parents through a daze of tramadol, and went back to bed, parking the new gifts by the door and not looking back.
I went to see a play on New Year's Eve, having postponed my ticket till my discharge. I was fine for the performance, but when I stood to leave the stage and seats spun round, switching places. While I've never been drunk, a condition both my stomach and my morals are in firm agreement on, I have a pretty good idea what that would feel like now. They guided me out past people dancing with faces painted in the streets, shouting 2014 greetings while beating tamborines and blowing whistles.
2014 had better be better. Folks, it's been surreal.
I'm better now, as I hope is demonstrated by the fact that I've finally, finally written to you again. I had to write out all this unpleasantness before I could tackle my annual Christmas letter. Hope it's not been too graphic. :S
While my GI system is better, if sore, my RA--not to be left out of the party--has been worse. For days after the hospital, I walked slightly bent and twisted to the left. An MRI showed erosions between my ribs and my spine which explains a whole lot about the weird pain that wakens me in the morning to labored breathing, my ribcage complaining about the task of expanding for air.
The good news are that my specialists are all finally back from vacation, and I'm starting to see them, get more tests, try more meds, drink mostly "bone broth," and take all manner of herbal supplements 20 minutes before, 32 minutes after, and in the middle of meals. I take a handful of capsules before bed, but usually have to take a vicodin or two to get the pain down to sleeping levels. And a zofran for the nausea the vicodin causes. And an extra tylenol for the migraine the zofran can bring on. Did I mention I hate pills? I hate pills. Of course, I'm going on Humira shots again soon, so I will like pills better then I'm sure.
Thank you for your prayers during this season of my keeping company with pain... while trying to do just enough cooking, dishes, and laundry that my family is fed and clothed till my husband gets home and I can seek ice and heat. As for the appearance of the house, dinner parties will wait for the time being, and the tree may well be up till March. Which is just fine with me. I need to catch up on this season of joy.
I could end with something totally obnoxious like "Y'all be grateful if you can move without pain." But you know, that sort of gratitude is just difficult, because we humans have a wonderful amnesia when we're out of pain, and very quickly embrace the comfort of normalcy. We weren't made for pain, after all.
I should know better than anyone, as I'm lucky enough--despite my diagnoses--to only go through these really bad spells once in a blue moon. Since I'm not able to be grateful enough for when I'm well, I'm really trying to spend time being grateful--ahead of time--for when I will feel better. Because it will come, this season will pass, and I will likely attempt tubing within the month, blissfully unaware of the weeks I spent being gimpy and grumbly around the house here. I look forward to doing all the things I was made to do by a God who sure can give us more than we can handle yet is, among many attributes, definitely fun-loving. And I'm grateful for that, right now.
Meanwhile, pray because I've been sitting for a while typing out all this bravery, and I'm about to begin the process of standing up. Oooh boy. See you sooner rather than later, you wonderful ole' Bloggesphere. ;)
I'm going to favor the New Century Version translation this time. I know, I know. If you must, here's the Douay-Rheims: "The Lord help him on his bed of sorrow : thou hast turned all his couch in his sickness." Not particularly desirous of mental images of a Divine up-turning of my already distressed furniture, I'm gonna go with this:
"The Lord will give them strength when they are sick, and make them well again." Psalm 41:3
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