According to the dictionary of medical terms at WebMD.com, a flat affect is defined as "absence of or diminution in the amount of emotional tone or outward emotional reaction typically shown by oneself or others under similar circumstances; a milder form is termed blunted affect." In this term, the word 'affect' is pronounced AFF-fekt, not uh-FEKT as in, "This circumstance affected me negatively." Also not to be confused with 'effect,' which is used as a noun in sentences like "This circumstance had a negative effect on me." There's your grammar lesson for the day.
It's important to define this term, I believe, because I referred to myself recently as having a flat affect and was exploring the possible causes. I probably don't have a true medical diagnosis of flat affect; my guess, both from my college education (I have a bachelor's degree in psychology) and from previous experience, is that I'm experiencing mild depression. Pregnancy hormones could have something to do with this, but I also believe it's partly due to R.'s recent experience with a brain tumor and the ensuing chemotherapy. Let's go back to that story...
When I left off, R. had just gotten his Hickman catheter and was ready to start ten weeks of chemo, at the end of which he would have another MRI to check on the benign tumor on his optic nerve. My husband and I prayed harder than we've ever prayed before. I sent several weekly email updates to family and friends, who shared our son's story with their friends, etc., until we were being bathed in prayer by Christian believers all over the world. I truly believed God was going to heal R. I decided to believe and not doubt, and ask for the biggest miracle possible - not only the removal of the tumor, but the removal of the entire NF-1 disorder from R's body. If my God is big enough to raise Jesus Christ from the dead, then He is definitely powerful enough to heal my son, I reasoned.
The ten weeks went by. R. had his MRI - and there was no change. The tumor was still there. We were crushed. How could God not have answered the heartfelt prayers of so many people for one little boy? I began to doubt whether God really cared for us or not. Why, after all, are we commanded to "pray without ceasing" (1 Thessalonians 5:17), and told that "the prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective" (James 5:17) if God is just going to do whatever He wants anyway? I don't want to get into a theological discussion of the paradox of God's ultimate sovereignty versus the power of prayer to change things, but this is what I struggled with, and these doubts began to chip away at my faith.
The short story is, I stopped hoping. I stopped asking God for anything. My prayers consisted of, "Lord, may your will be done." God's will was God's will, and I felt like He was just going to do whatever He deemed best, no matter what I said or did, so I didn't need to ask for anything anymore. After all, God does know best, doesn't he? He's the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, and His ways are not our ways. I figured my prayers were not necessary anymore. I began to expect the worst-case scenario in every aspect of life. I was terrified to leave my children or go on any vacations. My mind conjured up awful tragedies that surely awaited us if we dared to leave the safety of our home or town.
In the midst of all this, R. was actually doing well. He tolerated the chemo beautifully, never having nausea or vomiting, never losing all his hair, still able to attend preschool - and we would come to find out that it was considered a victory for the tumor to have stopped growing. Our expectations of it being completely erased were unrealistic, medically speaking. Over the next sixteen months, my husband finished residency, we moved from Wichita, Kansas, to his hometown in southeast South Dakota, and R. continued to receive chemo once per week - now in a phase called 'maintenance,' where the same drugs were administered in different concentrations. R. started kindergarten in the fall of 2010. He had regular eye exams to check on his sight and his optic nerve. He lost some weight and had less energy, and was also extremely emotionally fragile. We still flushed his Hickman line and changed the dressing every single night before bed, and he was not allowed to swim in the lake near our home because of the danger of infection.
As we plodded through the next year and a half, having sedated MRIs every three months (R. had to hold so still for these tests to be accurate that he had to be sedated every time), I contemplated our situation. I knew lots of people who had it worse than we did. I met them every time we went to the hospital for treatment - kids with leukemia or other cancers who were sick and miserable. They couldn't eat, couldn't play, had debilitating nausea, took numerous medicines intravenously and by mouth, and some of their families had moved hundreds of miles to be close to the cancer center for treatment. Some of them would die. At least my son's condition was not life-threatening. Truth be told, the chemo was working. Our expectations of the tumor's complete removal were unrealistic, medically speaking. Each MRI showed either no change or perhaps a millimeter of shrinkage in the tumor, which was considered a success from the doctors' standpoint.
I knew that, according to modern medicine, R. would always have this disorder. There is no cure for neurofibromatosis. He would always be at risk for new tumors developing. He would have to remain under the care of a genetic specialist and a neurologist (at the very least) for the rest of his life, to monitor his disorder and find any new tumors that might form. I also knew that I had asked God to take it away from R., and He had refrained from doing so. Helplessly, I struggled to reconcile the loving God I know from the Bible with the same one who, for some reason, had chosen not to heal my son.
(God really did give us a miracle with how well R. tolerated the harsh chemo drugs and stayed his preciously quirky, happy little self through the whole thing instead of getting angry or bitter with us and his doctors - but all I could focus on was how God hadn't given me exactly what I asked for.)
You see, when people have kids, they tend to make all kinds of mental plans around these kids' futures. They imagine what the kids will be when they grow up. Part of the joy in being a parent is found in teaching and refining these little people to be good, productive citizens of the world someday. We mold, we shape, we correct, we train - so that our precious little pipsqueaks will someday grow up to be solid, sensible adults who then raise lovely little families of their own. But when you're constantly preoccupied with a child whose medical condition precludes any certainty about their future, well...hoping and planning for the future becomes less appealing.
I know God wants me to take joy in life again. He wants me to love without reservations, to hope without fear, and to live abundantly in spite of - or perhaps because of - the fact that there are no guarantees. Once as I prayed about R. and the future, I angrily demanded of my Lord, "If you might take away anyone I love at any time, then what is there left for me?" And I felt Him impress upon my heart, "I AM left. I AM the one thing that will never, ever change. I AM the one you will always have. I want to be the desire of your heart - I want to be the only thing you need, even if I AM all you have left."
The conclusion I've reached is that my recent 'flat affect' or mild depression, if you will, is probably mostly the result of my own failure to be thankful. My heavenly Father is the same God yesterday, today, and forever, and my viewpoint of Him should not be filtered through my own fickle feelings. The Bible is the truth, and I can either choose to believe it and trust in Him, or not. Circumstances are but temporary, and they don't change the eternal qualities of God Himself. I have to remind myself of that.
I have more stories of losses I've experienced, ones which formed the framework of my faith both before and since R.'s medical problems began. Someday I'll share them with you, but they are stories of my husband's family tragedies, not technically mine, so they must be treated with extreme care. I don't write these things to get attention or to make anyone feel sorry for me - I know that many people out there have suffered far worse than I could ever imagine, and I don't want to diminish their pain in any way by comparing it to mine. I have simply shared one of my stories (albeit an incomplete, clumsily written account) because it helps me figure out where I am now in relation to where I've been. Each word I write helps lift the burden a little bit. Thanks to you for reading.
Love,
Jess
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Busy in the Kitchen
I've been a cooking fiend lately. I think the pregnancy "nesting" phenomenon is manifesting in me as an uncontrollable drive to cook. Then again, maybe it's this great cooking site I recently discovered. My new favorite pastime is reading through the recipe archives and printing out my favorites to try. Today I made homemade salsa (most of the ingredients come from a can! and it's so good!), chocolate-chip oatmeal cookies, and this obscenely decadent, buttery yellow cake. As if that wasn't ridiculous enough, I am currently in the process of making creamy carrot soup.
*Insert groan of food-induced ecstasy here*
What is it about carrots/squash/other root vegetables that just makes me want to make soup? I'm tellin' ya, the carrots boiling on my stove right now smell heavenly. I also make a mean butternut squash soup in the fall and winter. Haven't made it yet this year, but in a few weeks it'll be darn cold in South Dakota, and a bowl of that soup will sound pretty good.
It's the simplest recipe ever - peel & cube your butternut squash, plop it in a big soup pot, and pour vegetable stock over it till it's covered by a half-inch or so. Then bring to a boil; reduce heat & simmer till the squash is tender, and use a blender or immersion blender to puree it smooth. (Yes, I know "puree" should have that little French symbol over the first 'e', but I don't know how to type it that way.) Then add a dash of salt and plenty of ground white pepper. Yes, I said white pepper. Trust me on this.
If you've never made soup from squash before, you won't believe how creamy it is! It tastes like you added a whole bunch of fattening dairy products to it, but that's just the natural quality of the squash itself. Your husband/wife/dinner guests will think you're really spoiling them. Don't worry; it'll be our little secret.
I wasn't feeling emotionally "up" to telling the rest of my son R.'s story or talking about my flat affect today, so I prattled on about recipes for a while. I know you won't judge me, because we're all friends here. In the meantime, go look up the term "flat affect," and I'll be really impressed next time.
Lotsa love,
Jessica
*Insert groan of food-induced ecstasy here*
What is it about carrots/squash/other root vegetables that just makes me want to make soup? I'm tellin' ya, the carrots boiling on my stove right now smell heavenly. I also make a mean butternut squash soup in the fall and winter. Haven't made it yet this year, but in a few weeks it'll be darn cold in South Dakota, and a bowl of that soup will sound pretty good.
It's the simplest recipe ever - peel & cube your butternut squash, plop it in a big soup pot, and pour vegetable stock over it till it's covered by a half-inch or so. Then bring to a boil; reduce heat & simmer till the squash is tender, and use a blender or immersion blender to puree it smooth. (Yes, I know "puree" should have that little French symbol over the first 'e', but I don't know how to type it that way.) Then add a dash of salt and plenty of ground white pepper. Yes, I said white pepper. Trust me on this.
If you've never made soup from squash before, you won't believe how creamy it is! It tastes like you added a whole bunch of fattening dairy products to it, but that's just the natural quality of the squash itself. Your husband/wife/dinner guests will think you're really spoiling them. Don't worry; it'll be our little secret.
I wasn't feeling emotionally "up" to telling the rest of my son R.'s story or talking about my flat affect today, so I prattled on about recipes for a while. I know you won't judge me, because we're all friends here. In the meantime, go look up the term "flat affect," and I'll be really impressed next time.
Lotsa love,
Jessica
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Joy and a Flat Affect, part I
I promised you a few days ago that I would write more about how my son's recent illness has affected my faith and my emotions on a daily basis. I can't promise that this will be in any way understandable, but I'm going to do my best.
Something happens inside a person's soul, I believe, when they experience tragedy of any kind. We realize that we are not in control. We feel more helpless than we've ever felt. Sometimes our very worldview gets turned upside down. In my case, my faith (which is essentially my way of life) wasn't so much turned upside down as it experienced a vital, permanent shift. Like looking at the same world, the same family, the same God, but through a completely different lens. It felt like a crucial piece of information had been revealed to me. This information had always been true - this had really always been the way things were, but I had been unaware of it (consciously or otherwise). The truth I realized was this: I was not in control of life. Never had been. And there were no guarantees.
This is how my sweet boy looked at age three - the age he was when his doctors diagnosed a neurological disorder he'd been born with. He had had a host of relatively small medical problems since birth - colic, skin tags, a heart murmur, a speech delay, and crossed eyes (which resulted in him getting glasses, using eye patches every day, and eventually having two surgeries on his eye muscles to correct the problem). I had sort of gotten to the point where I figured that we might never know what was going on with him - there are so many disorders that have never been discovered or named; I just figured there was some little quirk that made my son the way he was. And I didn't care. I loved my precious, sweet, funny little boy just the way he was, and I planned to just take one day at a time and deal with his needs as they presented themselves.
Here's my little cutie about a year after his diagnosis. His disorder (neurofibromatosis type 1, NF-1 for short) is not life-threatening; it results in the growth of small, usually benign tumors throughout the body. These tumors only cause problems if they block blood vessels or lodge in joints, causing pain or immobility. Or, as in my son's case, if they grow on a person's optic nerves. When R. was diagnosed with NF-1, his neurologist recommended annual MRIs to keep watch on those vulnerable optic nerves. A year passed, and at the next scan, the doctor noticed one optic nerve getting thicker than the other. A tumor was forming.
Our doctor advised us that this looked like a trouble spot - a tumor beginning to form - and said we needed to scan again in six months this time, to see how fast it was growing. At the next scan, the tumor was indeed larger, and the neurologist said R. would need chemotherapy to stop the tumor's growth and prevent blindness in that eye. Surgery was not an option because the optic nerve is such a delicate area, there would be no way to remove the tumor without damaging the nerve and causing blindness. Thank God the tumor was (and is) benign, not an aggressive malignancy. Still, R's vision was in danger, and these types of tumors, we were told, are unpredictable. Sometimes they begin to form, then remain stable for decades, even for a person's entire life. Sometimes they grow for a while, then inexplicably "burn out" (stop growing), and even recede on their own. Sometimes chemo doesn't work. Even the experts are in uncertain depths here, they said.
R's tumor had shown up in less than a year, and grown enough that it needed treatment - now - in less than six months. We were dealing with an unusually fast-growing tumor. There were all kinds of questions: should we choose chemo? Should we do both chemo and radiation? Radiation in such a young child could be disastrous, potentially causing cancer or other malignant growths later in life - as early as his twenties. What if chemo didn't work? If the tumor was allowed to grow large enough, it could possibly cause compression problems on R's brain, maybe even threatening his life. Would he lose the eye? How would we tell our son we had to sacrifice his eye to save his life? He was only five, for heaven's sake! Not even in kindergarten yet. My heart broke.
(R., circa 2009, age five. Location: Cabo San Lucas)
We consulted with multiple experts - child tumor specialists, oncologists, radiation oncologists, geneticists - and decided chemotherapy would be the best course of action. Now my son would be facing a potentially dangerous surgery to place a central line in his chest, in a vein near his heart, with a port to the outside of his body (called a Hickman catheter). It would be through this line that he would receive his chemo drugs. It would also need daily flushes of heparin-infused saline solution to keep it from clotting off, and daily iodine swabbing and fresh dressing applications. We were told that the typical protocol for this type of tumor was ten consecutive weeks of chemo, one day per week - a phase called induction. After that, we would do another MRI and see what the results were. I began to pray more earnestly than I ever have...
Something happens inside a person's soul, I believe, when they experience tragedy of any kind. We realize that we are not in control. We feel more helpless than we've ever felt. Sometimes our very worldview gets turned upside down. In my case, my faith (which is essentially my way of life) wasn't so much turned upside down as it experienced a vital, permanent shift. Like looking at the same world, the same family, the same God, but through a completely different lens. It felt like a crucial piece of information had been revealed to me. This information had always been true - this had really always been the way things were, but I had been unaware of it (consciously or otherwise). The truth I realized was this: I was not in control of life. Never had been. And there were no guarantees.
This is how my sweet boy looked at age three - the age he was when his doctors diagnosed a neurological disorder he'd been born with. He had had a host of relatively small medical problems since birth - colic, skin tags, a heart murmur, a speech delay, and crossed eyes (which resulted in him getting glasses, using eye patches every day, and eventually having two surgeries on his eye muscles to correct the problem). I had sort of gotten to the point where I figured that we might never know what was going on with him - there are so many disorders that have never been discovered or named; I just figured there was some little quirk that made my son the way he was. And I didn't care. I loved my precious, sweet, funny little boy just the way he was, and I planned to just take one day at a time and deal with his needs as they presented themselves.
Here's my little cutie about a year after his diagnosis. His disorder (neurofibromatosis type 1, NF-1 for short) is not life-threatening; it results in the growth of small, usually benign tumors throughout the body. These tumors only cause problems if they block blood vessels or lodge in joints, causing pain or immobility. Or, as in my son's case, if they grow on a person's optic nerves. When R. was diagnosed with NF-1, his neurologist recommended annual MRIs to keep watch on those vulnerable optic nerves. A year passed, and at the next scan, the doctor noticed one optic nerve getting thicker than the other. A tumor was forming.
Our doctor advised us that this looked like a trouble spot - a tumor beginning to form - and said we needed to scan again in six months this time, to see how fast it was growing. At the next scan, the tumor was indeed larger, and the neurologist said R. would need chemotherapy to stop the tumor's growth and prevent blindness in that eye. Surgery was not an option because the optic nerve is such a delicate area, there would be no way to remove the tumor without damaging the nerve and causing blindness. Thank God the tumor was (and is) benign, not an aggressive malignancy. Still, R's vision was in danger, and these types of tumors, we were told, are unpredictable. Sometimes they begin to form, then remain stable for decades, even for a person's entire life. Sometimes they grow for a while, then inexplicably "burn out" (stop growing), and even recede on their own. Sometimes chemo doesn't work. Even the experts are in uncertain depths here, they said.
R's tumor had shown up in less than a year, and grown enough that it needed treatment - now - in less than six months. We were dealing with an unusually fast-growing tumor. There were all kinds of questions: should we choose chemo? Should we do both chemo and radiation? Radiation in such a young child could be disastrous, potentially causing cancer or other malignant growths later in life - as early as his twenties. What if chemo didn't work? If the tumor was allowed to grow large enough, it could possibly cause compression problems on R's brain, maybe even threatening his life. Would he lose the eye? How would we tell our son we had to sacrifice his eye to save his life? He was only five, for heaven's sake! Not even in kindergarten yet. My heart broke.
(R., circa 2009, age five. Location: Cabo San Lucas)
We consulted with multiple experts - child tumor specialists, oncologists, radiation oncologists, geneticists - and decided chemotherapy would be the best course of action. Now my son would be facing a potentially dangerous surgery to place a central line in his chest, in a vein near his heart, with a port to the outside of his body (called a Hickman catheter). It would be through this line that he would receive his chemo drugs. It would also need daily flushes of heparin-infused saline solution to keep it from clotting off, and daily iodine swabbing and fresh dressing applications. We were told that the typical protocol for this type of tumor was ten consecutive weeks of chemo, one day per week - a phase called induction. After that, we would do another MRI and see what the results were. I began to pray more earnestly than I ever have...
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Pets. And Me.
Friends, (since that's what we are, truly, aren't we?) I have a confession to make. Get ready. You may want to have some tissues handy in case you get a little choked up. Ready? Here goes...
I don't like pets in the house.
Whew! There! I said it and I feel a little bit better. Also a little bit ashamed, but that's why we're here - to work out our issues.
Honestly, I grew up on a farm, and was brought up to believe that animals belong outside. I have no problem with dogs, or cats, or chickens, or ferrets, or whatever - it's just that I believe animals were created to live in the great outdoors, and people were created to live inside whatever types of semi-sophisticated shelters they can construct for themselves. Now, I realize in some societies, animals just share the same general space as people and kind of go wherever they please, but this is middle America, and I am a middle-class stay-at-home mom, so I can choose whether I want animals living with me or not. (Please forgive me, Mrs. Gross, my seventh-grade English teacher - I split up the "whether or not" instead of keeping it all together. The grammar nut in me should be ashamed.)
I can choose whether or not I want animals living with me. There, I feel better.
We used to have dogs. Two of them, to be specific. And they lived in the house with us. One was an English mastiff named Zeus, who was very cute, quirky and affectionate, despite his enormous eventual size. Zeus was my husband's favorite dog. Those guys were buds. The second was a chocolate Lab named Bear, who was tiny at first, and looked unfortunately like a rat as a puppy. But he was a sweet dog and was bred from a line of great hunting Labs (never mind that neither my husband nor I hunt). So these two dogs lived with us for about seven months before I found out I was pregnant with our first child. In typical early-pregnancy hormonal fashion, I freaked out about having dogs and babies in the same house at the same time. Would it cause our baby to have allergies? Would it be too unsanitary? Would I have time to walk/feed/bathe my pets anymore, or would I be too busy, well, mothering my child?
Before you know it, my fevered first-trimester brain had decided, irrevocably, that the best course of action would be to get rid of the dogs. And by "get rid of," I mean "find new and loving homes for." So we placed some classified ads in the newspaper and began interviewing potential adoptive families for our pets. My husband was very sad when we found a home for his beloved Zeus. I even saw him shed a few tears as he gave our pet his final bath before his new owners came to meet him. Chalk it up to one of my many wifely mistakes - I should have known how much he loved that dog. Zeus was special. But my wonderful man could see that his barely-sane wife could not handle the pressure of expecting her first baby and coping with a 120-poundmoose dog in the house. So he let his favorite pet go...for me. Excuse me while I get my tissues...
OK, I'm back. *sniffle* Letting go of Bear was less emotional, as he wasn't my husband's favorite; he was sort of my dog, and he hadn't been with us as long. We originally got him because we figured Zeus needed company. We sold Bear to a teenage boy whose longtime hunting dog had recently died of old age. I could see the excitement in that sweet boy's eyes when he and his dad came to meet Bear. He maintained his Mr. Cool persona, as teenagers must do if they ever want to look their friends in the eye again (never mind that none of his friends were there - somehow they would find out! Because teenagers know everything, right?). But I could still tell he really liked the puppy, and adopting Bear would help ease the hurt of losing his own dog. So I sent Bear to a farm outside a small town not far from where I grew up, to learn how to hunt pheasants with his new boy. I would drive past that farm sometimes in later years, and I would always think of Bear - how old was he now, did he turn out to be a good hunter, etc. - and hope that he was happy.
Zeus's new family did write us a postcard one time, telling us that Zeus was getting along well with their other dogs, spending his days lying on his own couch on the porch, being fat and lazy as mastiffs tend to do. His new home was about an hour's drive away, in another state - not a place we passed by on a regular basis. I'm sure he's gone on to doggy heaven (or whatever) now, since a mastiff's life span is only 10-12 years.
Our family had a brief stint with a maladjusted, hyperactive beagle named Molly, since my middle son became obsessed with beagles one year. Plus, my oldest child and only daughter was petrified of dogs (a little terrier walking down our street got loose from its owner's grip one day as we were playing in the front yard, and chased my daughter, screaming in terror, up our front steps and into the house), and I determined that being so afraid of dogs was not healthy for her. So we caved in to the beagle beggin's. Sadly for everyone except me, Molly got loose from her chain in the yard one day and was never seen again. We did look for her at the animal shelters and the local Humane Society, but never found her. On one of those trips to look for her, I brought home a black Lab named Speed, which I told myself would help the kids get over losing Molly. (I can tell you're shaking your head at my boundless stupidity right now.) As you might expect, replacing one maladjusted dog with another just created more mess and more chaos at home, so back to the Humane Society went Speed as well.
Now, before you call the ASPCA on me, I promise you that all our dogs were well taken care of when they lived with us; it's just that I am not a super-accomplished wife and mother, and it was hard enough for me to take care of my three kids while my husband was in residency - working nights, weekends, holidays, and everything in between. Somehow, training and caring for a dog was not high on my priority list, and only compounded the desperation to survive that we all lived with during those five years. (On a related note, did you know that according to a 1997 study, 29% of medical marriages end in divorce? That statistic climbs up to 33% if you're a surgeon, which my husband is. I'm sure the numbers are even higher by now.)
While I heave a deep, shuddering, cleansing sigh after having confessed all this, let's get back to my original topic. For myriad reasons - my own neurotic tendencies, the pressures of raising a young family, my husband's demanding work hours - we have never succeeded at owning a dog. By "succeeded," I mean we've never obtained a dog and then kept it till it died peacefully of old age. As I mentioned, I am not the best housekeeper, so the added mess of an animal in the house really tipped us over the edge from "somewhat dirty, hasn't been dusted or vaccumed in awhile" to "probably breaking several health codes." Consequently, I've decided that I will never again own a house dog. If we ever get a dog again, which I doubt, it will have its own house outdoors or in the garage, and be able to run around, drool and shed freely, and chase squirrels and birds to its heart's content, without dirtying up my house.
That being said, we did get my daughter a blue parakeet when she begged for one. Its name is Emma. Perhaps the depths of my craziness are only beginning to be plumbed...
I don't like pets in the house.
Whew! There! I said it and I feel a little bit better. Also a little bit ashamed, but that's why we're here - to work out our issues.
Honestly, I grew up on a farm, and was brought up to believe that animals belong outside. I have no problem with dogs, or cats, or chickens, or ferrets, or whatever - it's just that I believe animals were created to live in the great outdoors, and people were created to live inside whatever types of semi-sophisticated shelters they can construct for themselves. Now, I realize in some societies, animals just share the same general space as people and kind of go wherever they please, but this is middle America, and I am a middle-class stay-at-home mom, so I can choose whether I want animals living with me or not. (Please forgive me, Mrs. Gross, my seventh-grade English teacher - I split up the "whether or not" instead of keeping it all together. The grammar nut in me should be ashamed.)
I can choose whether or not I want animals living with me. There, I feel better.
We used to have dogs. Two of them, to be specific. And they lived in the house with us. One was an English mastiff named Zeus, who was very cute, quirky and affectionate, despite his enormous eventual size. Zeus was my husband's favorite dog. Those guys were buds. The second was a chocolate Lab named Bear, who was tiny at first, and looked unfortunately like a rat as a puppy. But he was a sweet dog and was bred from a line of great hunting Labs (never mind that neither my husband nor I hunt). So these two dogs lived with us for about seven months before I found out I was pregnant with our first child. In typical early-pregnancy hormonal fashion, I freaked out about having dogs and babies in the same house at the same time. Would it cause our baby to have allergies? Would it be too unsanitary? Would I have time to walk/feed/bathe my pets anymore, or would I be too busy, well, mothering my child?
Before you know it, my fevered first-trimester brain had decided, irrevocably, that the best course of action would be to get rid of the dogs. And by "get rid of," I mean "find new and loving homes for." So we placed some classified ads in the newspaper and began interviewing potential adoptive families for our pets. My husband was very sad when we found a home for his beloved Zeus. I even saw him shed a few tears as he gave our pet his final bath before his new owners came to meet him. Chalk it up to one of my many wifely mistakes - I should have known how much he loved that dog. Zeus was special. But my wonderful man could see that his barely-sane wife could not handle the pressure of expecting her first baby and coping with a 120-pound
OK, I'm back. *sniffle* Letting go of Bear was less emotional, as he wasn't my husband's favorite; he was sort of my dog, and he hadn't been with us as long. We originally got him because we figured Zeus needed company. We sold Bear to a teenage boy whose longtime hunting dog had recently died of old age. I could see the excitement in that sweet boy's eyes when he and his dad came to meet Bear. He maintained his Mr. Cool persona, as teenagers must do if they ever want to look their friends in the eye again (never mind that none of his friends were there - somehow they would find out! Because teenagers know everything, right?). But I could still tell he really liked the puppy, and adopting Bear would help ease the hurt of losing his own dog. So I sent Bear to a farm outside a small town not far from where I grew up, to learn how to hunt pheasants with his new boy. I would drive past that farm sometimes in later years, and I would always think of Bear - how old was he now, did he turn out to be a good hunter, etc. - and hope that he was happy.
Zeus's new family did write us a postcard one time, telling us that Zeus was getting along well with their other dogs, spending his days lying on his own couch on the porch, being fat and lazy as mastiffs tend to do. His new home was about an hour's drive away, in another state - not a place we passed by on a regular basis. I'm sure he's gone on to doggy heaven (or whatever) now, since a mastiff's life span is only 10-12 years.
Our family had a brief stint with a maladjusted, hyperactive beagle named Molly, since my middle son became obsessed with beagles one year. Plus, my oldest child and only daughter was petrified of dogs (a little terrier walking down our street got loose from its owner's grip one day as we were playing in the front yard, and chased my daughter, screaming in terror, up our front steps and into the house), and I determined that being so afraid of dogs was not healthy for her. So we caved in to the beagle beggin's. Sadly for everyone except me, Molly got loose from her chain in the yard one day and was never seen again. We did look for her at the animal shelters and the local Humane Society, but never found her. On one of those trips to look for her, I brought home a black Lab named Speed, which I told myself would help the kids get over losing Molly. (I can tell you're shaking your head at my boundless stupidity right now.) As you might expect, replacing one maladjusted dog with another just created more mess and more chaos at home, so back to the Humane Society went Speed as well.
Now, before you call the ASPCA on me, I promise you that all our dogs were well taken care of when they lived with us; it's just that I am not a super-accomplished wife and mother, and it was hard enough for me to take care of my three kids while my husband was in residency - working nights, weekends, holidays, and everything in between. Somehow, training and caring for a dog was not high on my priority list, and only compounded the desperation to survive that we all lived with during those five years. (On a related note, did you know that according to a 1997 study, 29% of medical marriages end in divorce? That statistic climbs up to 33% if you're a surgeon, which my husband is. I'm sure the numbers are even higher by now.)
While I heave a deep, shuddering, cleansing sigh after having confessed all this, let's get back to my original topic. For myriad reasons - my own neurotic tendencies, the pressures of raising a young family, my husband's demanding work hours - we have never succeeded at owning a dog. By "succeeded," I mean we've never obtained a dog and then kept it till it died peacefully of old age. As I mentioned, I am not the best housekeeper, so the added mess of an animal in the house really tipped us over the edge from "somewhat dirty, hasn't been dusted or vaccumed in awhile" to "probably breaking several health codes." Consequently, I've decided that I will never again own a house dog. If we ever get a dog again, which I doubt, it will have its own house outdoors or in the garage, and be able to run around, drool and shed freely, and chase squirrels and birds to its heart's content, without dirtying up my house.
That being said, we did get my daughter a blue parakeet when she begged for one. Its name is Emma. Perhaps the depths of my craziness are only beginning to be plumbed...
Monday, October 24, 2011
Garden Hopes and Dreams
I want to plant a vegetable garden next spring. Nothing too fancy, because I'm very inexperienced in this particular area. But I finally have an acre of land on which sit my house, my camper, and various other vehicles (some of which are completely unnecessary) - and lo and behold, there is a little spot in the backyard which was once tilled up for flower gardening.
Now you might notice that I said "vegetable garden," not flower garden. This is because I know even less about flowers than I do about vegetables, and my house tends to be like Death Row for flowering plants. Unless they're lucky and happen to be a cactus, or some other plant that doesn't wither and turn dry, brown, and dead without water.
When I was growing up, we had a huge vegetable garden on our farm. Every year my mom and grandma would plant potatoes, sweet corn, green beans, wax beans, cauliflower, broccoli, radishes, onions, and sometimes carrots. We also had dill, rhubarb, and my grandpa's precious tomato plants, from which he went to great lengths to coax beautiful, bright-red fruit. There was also one "wild card" area of the garden which played host to something different every year. Sometimes it was pumpkins, sometimes it was squash - one time I even remember Grandpa planting strawberry vines. We kids had a blast picking and eating those. We didn't even care if they were barely more than whitish-green; all they had to have was a slight hint of red, and we thought they were the best things we'd ever tasted.
Anyway, I like the idea of growing a few things in my own yard, since summer produce is so wonderful. I can see myself getting carried away, though, and planting so much that I can't possibly keep up with it all. So I think I will keep it simple for my first official year of gardening, and probably plant a few hills of potatoes, a couple tomato plants, some zucchini and yellow squash, and maybe some peppers. Then closer to the house I'll plant cilantro and basil in big, brightly colored, glazed pottery urns. (My mom says herbs are easier to tend when they're in planters as opposed to in the ground. I'll take her word for it.) They have some gorgeous ones at my local garden center, and the lady told me they'd probably go on sale in the spring.
Any other fledgling gardeners out there? Feel free to share your experiences - be they tragedies or triumphs. I could use all the help I can get!
Sincerely,
Black Thumb
Now you might notice that I said "vegetable garden," not flower garden. This is because I know even less about flowers than I do about vegetables, and my house tends to be like Death Row for flowering plants. Unless they're lucky and happen to be a cactus, or some other plant that doesn't wither and turn dry, brown, and dead without water.
When I was growing up, we had a huge vegetable garden on our farm. Every year my mom and grandma would plant potatoes, sweet corn, green beans, wax beans, cauliflower, broccoli, radishes, onions, and sometimes carrots. We also had dill, rhubarb, and my grandpa's precious tomato plants, from which he went to great lengths to coax beautiful, bright-red fruit. There was also one "wild card" area of the garden which played host to something different every year. Sometimes it was pumpkins, sometimes it was squash - one time I even remember Grandpa planting strawberry vines. We kids had a blast picking and eating those. We didn't even care if they were barely more than whitish-green; all they had to have was a slight hint of red, and we thought they were the best things we'd ever tasted.
Anyway, I like the idea of growing a few things in my own yard, since summer produce is so wonderful. I can see myself getting carried away, though, and planting so much that I can't possibly keep up with it all. So I think I will keep it simple for my first official year of gardening, and probably plant a few hills of potatoes, a couple tomato plants, some zucchini and yellow squash, and maybe some peppers. Then closer to the house I'll plant cilantro and basil in big, brightly colored, glazed pottery urns. (My mom says herbs are easier to tend when they're in planters as opposed to in the ground. I'll take her word for it.) They have some gorgeous ones at my local garden center, and the lady told me they'd probably go on sale in the spring.
Any other fledgling gardeners out there? Feel free to share your experiences - be they tragedies or triumphs. I could use all the help I can get!
Sincerely,
Black Thumb
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
The Story of This Morning
1. This morning, I wore my glasses into the shower. I don't usually do this (on purpose, anyway).
2. I realized it when the water hit them, and then I called myself dumb, took them off, and dropped them on the bathmat outside the curtain.
3. Approximately 12.75 minutes later (hey, I had to shave), I stepped out of said shower, dripping and blind, and...wait for it...stepped right on my glasses, which were lying on the bathmat where I put them.
4. I shrieked, "My glasses!"
5. I picked them up, popped the one lens back in - it fell out because of some dodo's big foot - and set them on the counter while I dried off.
6. Later, I picked the glasses up, put them on my face, and realized they were all crooked, caddywampus, and sad from being stepped on. Now I have to go get them adjusted.
THE END.
2. I realized it when the water hit them, and then I called myself dumb, took them off, and dropped them on the bathmat outside the curtain.
3. Approximately 12.75 minutes later (hey, I had to shave), I stepped out of said shower, dripping and blind, and...wait for it...stepped right on my glasses, which were lying on the bathmat where I put them.
4. I shrieked, "My glasses!"
5. I picked them up, popped the one lens back in - it fell out because of some dodo's big foot - and set them on the counter while I dried off.
6. Later, I picked the glasses up, put them on my face, and realized they were all crooked, caddywampus, and sad from being stepped on. Now I have to go get them adjusted.
THE END.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Tough
Warning: Do not read this post if you were in any way expecting something cheerful, upbeat, or optimistic.
Today's not that kind of day for me.
Since no one reads this except me anyway, I'm just going to explore my feelings for a few minutes. Normally I don't like to talk a lot about how I'm feeling, because it makes me seem pathetic and troubled instead of confident, well-adjusted, and...well, normal. But lately I just can't shake this pervasive apathy that seems to cover my whole life.
I don't care about the leaves on our lawn. Or the dead flowers in my window baskets. Or the rocks all over the driveway that need to be swept back into the shrub beds. I don't care that I don't have a wreath on my front door or pumpkins for my front steps, I don't care that there are weeds everywhere that need to be pulled or sprayed with Round-up - I don't even care about the beautiful, crisp, cool fall weather (which would usually be one of my favorite things).
I can't find any enthusiasm for things I used to enjoy, like studying Spanish. I can't make myself care about things I used to want to accomplish, like organizing all my photos or re-learning to play the piano. When I think about my own personal interests besides raising my children and keeping my sweet husband happy, I can't come up with anything. There's no joy in Mudville, folks. Anyone know where it went? I'd be really thrilled to have it back.
I've been depressed before, and it's possible that I am again. I know for sure that I don't want to go back on medication, though. I don't want that artificial "even keel." It makes me feel fake, and I'm nowhere near depressed enough to harm myself. I can still function; I just don't care about anything. I want my family to be happy and well taken care of, so I still do my best to run this household, but like I said, all the joy has done gone out of it.
Could the problem be pregnancy hormones? Possibly. Clinical depression? Potentially. Simple discontent? Maybe. I've been reading a great blog lately about someone whose life seems so much happier and more special than mine, so maybe the devil is just getting me to nurture those covetous feelings. Poor me, so-and-so has such a more interesting life. Her kids are better behaved, her marriage is more passionate, she seems to truly enjoy her daily routine and look for the best in life, etc., etc., etc. Discontent is the opposite of joy, that's for sure. I could be just playing right into the enemy's hands by entertaining wrong thought patterns. Perhaps I should count my blessings.
The other thing I've been thinking about lately in regard to my seeming inability to feel deeply anymore, is my middle son's recent experience with a benign brain tumor and 16 months of chemo. He's done with chemo now, the treatment was successful at stopping the tumor's growth, and his eyesight has even shown some slight improvement. Technically, it looks like our "trial" is over for now. I'm very thankful for that. But the process, the whole experience was so painful and challenging to my faith in God. I'll post more on that later; it's just too long to chronicle in this already-lengthy post.
As I sit here typing this, I can feel my unborn baby kicking. It brings a small smile to my face. I played basketball in the driveway with my youngest son this afternoon. I had to force myself to go out there, but I did, and he had fun running around. He's such an active boy; he needs lots of "outside time" each day or his energy gets to be too loud, too destructive, too rough for others. He's four; need I say more? Soon it will be time to pick up my older two kids from school, but first I'm going to play some more games with my little guy. He loves me. He tells me all the time, "I love you, Mommy." Then he kisses my hand and hugs me around the neck. He's pretty special and I'm a very blessed mama.
Today's not that kind of day for me.
Since no one reads this except me anyway, I'm just going to explore my feelings for a few minutes. Normally I don't like to talk a lot about how I'm feeling, because it makes me seem pathetic and troubled instead of confident, well-adjusted, and...well, normal. But lately I just can't shake this pervasive apathy that seems to cover my whole life.
I don't care about the leaves on our lawn. Or the dead flowers in my window baskets. Or the rocks all over the driveway that need to be swept back into the shrub beds. I don't care that I don't have a wreath on my front door or pumpkins for my front steps, I don't care that there are weeds everywhere that need to be pulled or sprayed with Round-up - I don't even care about the beautiful, crisp, cool fall weather (which would usually be one of my favorite things).
I can't find any enthusiasm for things I used to enjoy, like studying Spanish. I can't make myself care about things I used to want to accomplish, like organizing all my photos or re-learning to play the piano. When I think about my own personal interests besides raising my children and keeping my sweet husband happy, I can't come up with anything. There's no joy in Mudville, folks. Anyone know where it went? I'd be really thrilled to have it back.
I've been depressed before, and it's possible that I am again. I know for sure that I don't want to go back on medication, though. I don't want that artificial "even keel." It makes me feel fake, and I'm nowhere near depressed enough to harm myself. I can still function; I just don't care about anything. I want my family to be happy and well taken care of, so I still do my best to run this household, but like I said, all the joy has done gone out of it.
Could the problem be pregnancy hormones? Possibly. Clinical depression? Potentially. Simple discontent? Maybe. I've been reading a great blog lately about someone whose life seems so much happier and more special than mine, so maybe the devil is just getting me to nurture those covetous feelings. Poor me, so-and-so has such a more interesting life. Her kids are better behaved, her marriage is more passionate, she seems to truly enjoy her daily routine and look for the best in life, etc., etc., etc. Discontent is the opposite of joy, that's for sure. I could be just playing right into the enemy's hands by entertaining wrong thought patterns. Perhaps I should count my blessings.
The other thing I've been thinking about lately in regard to my seeming inability to feel deeply anymore, is my middle son's recent experience with a benign brain tumor and 16 months of chemo. He's done with chemo now, the treatment was successful at stopping the tumor's growth, and his eyesight has even shown some slight improvement. Technically, it looks like our "trial" is over for now. I'm very thankful for that. But the process, the whole experience was so painful and challenging to my faith in God. I'll post more on that later; it's just too long to chronicle in this already-lengthy post.
As I sit here typing this, I can feel my unborn baby kicking. It brings a small smile to my face. I played basketball in the driveway with my youngest son this afternoon. I had to force myself to go out there, but I did, and he had fun running around. He's such an active boy; he needs lots of "outside time" each day or his energy gets to be too loud, too destructive, too rough for others. He's four; need I say more? Soon it will be time to pick up my older two kids from school, but first I'm going to play some more games with my little guy. He loves me. He tells me all the time, "I love you, Mommy." Then he kisses my hand and hugs me around the neck. He's pretty special and I'm a very blessed mama.
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