Paper, Squared

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Mon, 31 Dec 2012 22:07:00 +0000

Here's to:

doing more and spending less

moving my body and my mind

quiet snuggles on the couch

crafty Sunday afternoons

journaling and recording

deep breaths and deeper stretches

climbing the ladder and not looking down

appreciation and gratitude

calm and peace

Happy New Year, everyone.

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Tue, 18 Dec 2012 18:56:00 +0000

When I wrote the last post, the first reports of Newtown were just starting to trickle in. I spent the remainder of the day like so many, staring blankly at my screen, the need to squeeze my daughter growing stronger and stronger. On the way home, all the energy used to keep it together during the day vanished, and I sobbed the entire drive. I was wracked with relief over being able to go home to my baby and overcome with guilt that I was able to and so many parents were not. I avoided the TV all weekend, and when an email from the principal at Emma's school asked parents to please talk with their children about what had happened, I shut down. Nope, not going to do it.

But we did. On Sunday night we sat her down and told her, in the most general terms we could manage, what had happened. We assured her she was safe, which felt like a hollow promise. How can guarantee anything? But we promised. And we told her we would talk to her about anything she wanted, and answer any questions she may have. She was solemn and asked only if they caught the person who did these terrible things. Yes, we said. He won't hurt anyone else anymore. As I walked her to room at bedtime, she told me she would have rather not known about what happened, confirming my feeling about not wanting to tell her. And that night she asked to sleep with me.

I don't want to think about it anymore, but I do. I'm angry that I have the luxury of not HAVING to think about it. Guilty. So instead I hug my kid a little harder.

tick

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Fri, 14 Dec 2012 17:27:00 +0000

Well.

Honestly, someone should have started a pool on how long it would be until I posted again. One of you would be... not rich. But maybe have a couple of extra dollars in your pocket.

So I'm sitting here in the midst of what I like to call existential crisis mode, where I can't focus on anything and I fleetingly think about all the things I should be doing, and then, like a boulder dropped onto my chest, I am missing my kid something awful. It's fierce and piercing and it physically hurts. I'm not sure if it's because of the child who was just carried out of the library, crying. Or seeing the headlines about the Connecticut school shooting. Or just because sometimes, despite the frustration and the backtalking and the seemingly constant sass, I miss my kid.

I've taken no pictures. I've written no blog posts. I've made no phone calls and I've addressed no Christmas cards.

Instead, I wait.

one. kind of.

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Wed, 05 Dec 2012 17:17:00 +0000

I wrote this Saturday. With all the best intentions. Let's try again.

I've done this before, not always successfully. But I'm once again feeling the urge to attempt something AND complete it. That urge is a dangerous one and usually results in tears and/or drinking. But fresh starts and all that.

So we begin. A post a day for the month of December. I also want to do the monthly photo-a-day challenge, so I'll try to include that picture with the post.

Day 1: My view today: Emma at swimming lessons.

Do you want to join me with a challenge of your own? Share it in the comments and we'll be each other's motivation.

My plan is to catch up by this weekend. I have the photos. I have the posts. I just have to put them together.

gut punched: epilogue

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Fri, 30 Nov 2012 21:26:00 +0000

On November 14, I woke up early. I was hungry, thirsty, and empty. The previous day had me ridding my insides of every last drop of fluid available. I showered, dressed, and Fred drove me to the hospital. I was anxious and distracted. He kept the chatter light, telling me about students in his classes and articles he had read.

We arrived right on time, and I forced my feet to move forward into the building. The hospital employs the same philosophy as Disneyland: keep them moving and they have no idea how long they've actually spent waiting. After checking in we went up to the second floor to a little room. Less than 10 minutes in there and they came and took me to a pre-op room. I changed into a gown, took out my nose ring, and had an IV put it. Then Fred came in and we watched a bit of some crime re-enactment show. I kept asking if it was too late to back out. Fred kept saying yes. A new nurse came in and laughed when she said I was in for a "double whammy." Sigh. Yup, that's me. She promised happy juice would be delivered soon, and wheeled me out of the room, telling Fred I'd be back in an hour. I waved good-bye. I was 47% sure that was the last time I'd ever see him.

The procedure room was ice cold, and there was music playing. R&B. I don't remember which song but I knew it. A nasal cannula went in with oxygen, heart and pulse ox monitors were applied. The drugs were pushed through the IV. Another nurse put a mouth guard in, which protected my teeth and held my lips apart. I was lying on my left side, staring at something that looked like a stereo, and that was that. No counting, no promises of sleep. Just... nothing.

At one point I woke up and opened my eyes to sound of moaning. It was me. Something hurt, cramping. The nurse rubbed my back and told me it was almost over. I closed my eyes and went back under.

The next time I opened my eyes I was in recovery, and women were hovering over me, chattering pleasantly and smiling. I asked for Fred. I asked for water. I went back under.

I woke up when they wheeled me into my room. Someone handed me apple juice and it was glorious. I signed some paperwork and the doctor came in. He told me everything looked good but he had biopsied pretty much all along the way. That explained the cramping. He also said I had diverticulosis and needed to eat more fiber. Was pretty convinced that IBS was my problem, and he'd had to give me medicine because my colon was spasming pretty good during the procedure. Told me to eat something mild and take it easy all day. One of the nurses said something about letting Fred take care of the laundry and I almost said, "He does anyway."

Fred helped me dress and asked what I wanted to eat. "Burger," I mumbled. "Fries." I barely remember eating it. At home, I climbed into bed, woken a few hours later by more cramping.

The next day I was fine, though still a little blurry around the edges. Biopsy results were negative. I'm still dairy-free, and have a follow-up with the doc after Christmas to discuss further possible dietary adjustments. In the meantime, I can definitely say that I'm feeling better, though facing the holidays without cheese just seems cruel.

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Sun, 11 Nov 2012 21:21:00 +0000

I've been dairy-free for two weeks. It sucks. I love cheese. All cheese. Any cheese. I also love whipped cream and ice cream and butter. Oh, do I love butter.

I'm not an optimist. I am not saying, "Oh, but I can still eat eggs! And wheat!" I don't care. I want cheese.

It actually hasn't been as bad as I thought. But as someone who never had to worry about what she ate, having to read every label obsessively gets a bit tiring.

"Why must you torture yourself thusly?" you may be asking.

Remember the whole gall bladder issue/non-issue? So, I never really got better. And in fact, at points, got a lot worse. As I wait for various tests and procedures to tell me what may or may not be wrong with me, my gastro doc has recommended I cut out dairy and see how I feel.

So far? I feel crappy without it, but feel even CRAPPIER with it. Yay?

(Actually, yesterday and today have shown a marked improvement. I even skipped my stomach meds today.)

On Wednesday I will have a camera shoved down my throat to check my upper GI for problems. Then a (one hopes) totally separate camera will enter from the opposite end to check the lower GI section. I'm looking forward to coming home afterwards and catching up on Grimm episodes and drinking ginger ale. Or clutching my midsection and groaning piteously. You know, whichever.

not just for kids

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Mon, 22 Oct 2012 16:05:00 +0000

Last night, I was in bed, coloring (WHAT. It's relaxing.), when I saw movement in the doorway of the bedroom. I assumed it was the cat, off to claim a snack. I stretched my legs and my feet bumped into the squishiness of said cat, fast asleep at the bottom of the bed.

Well, then.

I continued to color, wondering what malevolent spirit was prancing around my bedroom, when I saw the movement again. Not to be fooled twice, I looked up and realized it was not some headless child come to take her revenge but what appeared to be a mosquito.

Now, instead of fearing would be attacked by a murderous poltergeist I was sure I would be dying in the night from West Nile. My coloring took on a feverish pace and I may have nudged the cat a bit harder in an attempt to get him to WAKE UP AND GET THE MOSQUITO! He was not having it.

I continued to color, now looking out for the plague-carrying insect, when a flutter of wings hit my mouth (!!!) and I swatted helplessly at my face. And then I watched. I would be diligent. I would not sleep while that mosquito still lived.

And then I saw it. It was... not a mosquito. It was a tiny moth, attracted (I guess?) to the gleaming whiteness of my face.

I returned to my paper and exhaled. No unexplained deaths in the night were in store, it seemed, and I could relax.

I hate Sunday nights.

(OK, yes. I really was coloring. Blame Anne. She posted some grown-up coloring sheets to Pinterest and I grabbed some colored markers and went to town, letting my mind wander where it would. It was actually really relaxing and I highly recommend it. I think next time I may listen to a podcast, though. To ward off the ghostly mosquitoes.)

gut punched, THE END

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Mon, 27 Aug 2012 17:25:00 +0000

Are you tired of this story? I'M tired of it. How pissed would you be if I ended it "And then the pain went away and I went home. The end"?

But, that's kind of what happened.

In my room, finally, so happy just to have a pillow, a nurse quizzed me in the dark as he completed my intake paperwork. I asked for more pain meds and anti-nausea meds. He obliged happily, and then gave me a shot in the stomach.

Say what?

I was so out of it that when he approached with the needle, I assumed it was the morphine. I almost took the needle from his hand. Then he said it was heparin, a blood thinner, used to prevent DVT. Blood clots in my legs, y'all. So I rolled over and showed him my ass, at which point he laughed and said, "Not there!" Now I was out of it AND embarrassed and dammit. I JUST WANT TO SLEEP ON MY LITTLE PILLOW. Fine. Where do I have to get this blasted shot? "In the stomach." Oh, sure. Of course. Why not just give it to me in my eyeball? And the heparin BURNS. "Don't rub it!" he tells me as I grip my stomach. Then he tells me I'll be getting these lovely things every 8 hours. I just laughed. And then he pushed my pain meds and turned off the light and I went to sleep on my little pillow.

A large team of doctors came into my room at 7, and I tried to wake up as quickly as I could because they were all staring at me expectantly. Some looked young, really young. TOO young, frankly. One was THE surgeon and she explained that she was pretty certain I would need to have my gallbladder removed, but as long as I responded well to the antibiotics, the surgery wouldn't need to happen for 6 or 7 weeks. She outlined the tests that would be done over the course of the day, and I tried to memorize everything she said so I could repeat it back to Fred. She was very nice but I wanted her to leave because I had been sleeping and I'd heard that was hard to do in a hospital and could I just get back to it?

The other bit of news given to me was that I was not to eat or drink anything. At all. Nothing. No water, no ice chips, nothing. My roommate was in for the same issues and she hadn't eaten for a couple of days. She was not happy. I could see myself reaching that point very soon.

A couple of hours later I was wheeled away for an ultrasound, and when they brought be back to my room, Fred was waiting for me. I explained the morning, and we chatted quietly until a doctor came in to say those magical yet altogether confusing words: "Your ultrasound was clear."

No stones. No inflammation. The dilated liver duct? No longer dilated. Everything looked perfect. As for my blood work, the numbers had come down significantly from the day before. Diagnosis? Murder. Wait, no. There was no diagnosis. But they let me order some chicken broth and it was the best thing ever. Then they let me order DINNER. And that made my stomach very unhappy, so they made me stay in the hospital one more night. Stupid stomach.

On Sunday morning, they drew more blood (the tech actually gasped when she saw my arm; I, uh, bruise very easily). Fred showed up and we waited for the doc, who eventually came in and said, "Your blood work looks spectacular. You can go home." Yay! But wait! What happened? To that, a shrug. "Maybe a stomach bug gone haywire?" Mmm, comforting. No matter. I WAS FREE.

And then we waited three hours for them to submit the paperwork. The end.

EPILOGUE

I saw my doctor a few days later, and he looked over my chart and listened to me explain the whole thing. His diagnosis? Murder. Crap.

No, a gall stone (or small cluster of stones) that had been ejected from the gallbladder and had gotten wedged in a duct, causing the liver to go "MAKE MORE BILE!!" and the gallbladder to go "SEND MORE BILE!!" and my body to go "NO MORE BILE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!!" and then the gall stone(s) most likely became unwedged and plopped into my stomach and everything went back to normal. Sort of. It took about two weeks to recover, which my doc told me was standard. Apparently, the liver does a lot of jobs, and when it gets dinged from something like a gall stone, it takes its sweet-ass time to heal. As do I, my friends. As do I.

not really meet cute anymore

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Fri, 24 Aug 2012 15:44:00 +0000

So many of you clamoring for part two! Far be it from me to make you wait any longer.

From October 10, 2006

...somewhere close to the beginning but kind of in the middle...

This is where part two of the story of how Fred and I began should go. And so far, I've started and scrapped four versions of it.

The first part was funny. Strange. Fated lovers passing on a street corner. This next part? It's pretty much by the book. That's not to say it's not the best story I know. I'm just not sure it's the story you want to read. I struggle with how much to tell you. The details are important to me. They're probably boring to you. I also don't want it to read like this:

We emailed. We laughed. We went for dinner, but it was not a date. We talked a lot. We emailed some more. We went on a date. The end.

But that's how it went.

Oh, sure. I was beyond high-maintenance, and probably drove the guy nuts. That first night, that wasn't a date? I can't count how many times I changed the restaurant. On our first real date? I made him drive around for 45 minutes so I could figure out where I wanted to eat. And then there was the ex-boyfriend issue, who arrived in town the night of my first date with Fred. Ha.

There was also a play I was in, which required me to rehearse pretty much every night of the week in October. And that kid who thought he would make it his job to pursue me with all of his twenty-year-old wiles the night the show closed. Sweet kid. No chance, but sweet.

So I'll just tell you how nervous I was when Fred and I first went to dinner on our non-date. I was incredibly nervous. And how wonderful and relaxed he was, and how much he made me laugh. And how I made him a map of Brooklyn with sugar packets and he told me about growing up on Podunk Road. And how neither of us wanted the night to end, and would have talked all night if we could have. But instead, slowly walked to our cars in the parking lot, promising to spend another night hanging out.

And how I think I fell in love with him a teeny, tiny bit that night.

It was the best date we didn't have.

my version of meet cute

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Thu, 23 Aug 2012 14:34:00 +0000

Taking a break from the medical updates for a minute. Last night, Sarah asked how Fred and I met, and I gave her the short version. But it occurred to me that I have a lot of new readers now, so I'll share the full version here.

I originally wrote this on my old blog, and it's not done. Maybe one day I'll finish it.

From October 3, 2006

in the beginning...

Last night I was sitting across the kitchen table from Fred while we drank our beers (him: Sam Adams Cream Stout; me: Dogfish Head Punkin Ale) and waiting for our pizza to cook. Monday nights in our house (between the months of September and January) mean pizza and beer and MNF. It's a tradition Fred's had for I don't know how long, and when we started living together, I gladly took part.

As he talked, I watched his face, and thought back to a night five years ago when we sat across from each other. And last night, his mannerisms, his facial expressions, the sound of his voice, they were all the same. He caught me staring, and stopped mid-sentence, a smile turning up one side of his mouth. "What?" he asked. And I told him, "You haven't changed a bit."

The night that I was remembering was the beginning of the oddest, and quickest, courtships I've ever had.

Fred and I have known each other, or at least, known of each other, since 1998, when he arrived in Arizona, a newly minted Cornell grad eager to start a Ph.D. program. I was starting my senior year, and was working in the office of the director in the same department as Fred's grad program. I felt awkward around the grad students, mainly because I was so close in age to them but couldn't seem to connect. They were friendly, I was friendly. But it mostly my contact with them was a passing "hello" in the halls.

In the spring of 2000, Fred was helping to organize a grad student conference. By this point, I had graduated and been promoted to assistant to the director, and was helping organize catering and such. Because of this conference, Fred was in my office quite a bit, and we got to chatting. I was getting ready to leave for New York in the summer, but there was a chance I would end up in Boston instead. He lobbied for Boston, I cited the Beastie Boys as a reason for Brooklyn. And I could never shake the tiny tremor my stomach would give when I saw him.

As I've mentioned before [Ed. note: have I?], I moved back to Arizona from New York in the summer of 2001, and in early September started a new job. A week after I started was September 11.

I couldn't predict on that Tuesday the upheaval in my personal life that would come from those events. My ex reconnected with me, and repeated his desire to reconcile and start a long distance thing. I did my best to ignore his requests, but continued to communicate with him. Against my better judgment.

Just shy of two weeks after Sept. 11, I was walking back to my office from campus where I'd had lunch with my mom, and saw a group of people I recognized from my old department. And a little tickle in my stomach accompanied the recognition of Fred among the group. I laughed to myself when I saw him, because just the Friday before, a friend of mine (who at the time was engaged to a fellow grad student with Fred) called me at work and asked if I remembered Fred. To which I replied, yes, but would not go out with him. I was shallow and had stupid rules. I turned down her suggestion of a double date. "But he thinks you're cute," she insisted. "And he looks like Keanu Reeves. Don't you think?" I was firm, and she reluctantly gave up. Apparently, fate decided to intervene.

Back on the street, I called his name and waved.

He looked in my direction, shielding his eyes from the sun, and lifted his hand half-heartedly. We continued on our way.

Returning to my office, I hastily typed and sent a note to the friend that had called me, saying if there was any chance before of my going on a date with Fred, he had just killed it. "He didn't even know who I was!"

Satisfied, I sat back and started some work. Within minutes, a new message arrived in my inbox from my friend. It was a forward. Seconds after receiving my message, she received another one. From Fred. Wondering if she knew if I was back in town because he thought he may have seen me. And she had forwarded my message to him.

There I sat, cheeks flaming, and the little butterflies tumbling around inside me.

To be continued...

gut punched, part 2

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Mon, 20 Aug 2012 12:11:00 +0000

Part 1

Have you ever spent an extended period of time in an emergency room, specifically in an emergency room in a city hospital? I wouldn't recommend it. In fact, I'd go so far as to say you should do your best to avoid it at all costs, especially if you're going to be there around midnight on a Friday.

After the surgeon came in and poked and prodded me some more, he explained that I had a textbook case of cholecystitis -- one inflamed and irritated and most likely infected gallbladder. My CT scan had shown the inflammation, and my labs showed markedly high liver enzymes and white blood cells. I would be immediately (remember that word) admitted to the hospital, started on a strong course of antibiotics to "cool off" my gallbladder, and I should plan on spending at least the weekend, if not longer. Wheeee! Surgery to remove the little bastard could happen as early as Monday.

This was around 6:30-7 in the evening. I originally got the ER around 12:30.

Shift change happened shortly thereafter, and I didn't see my new nurse for an hour, when she came in to give me the antibiotics. All pain meds had worn off at this point and I had a really terrible headache. I asked if she knew anything about the availability of a bed, and she said she would check. It was around this point that the really interesting inhabitants of the ER started to show up. In the bed to my left was an elderly woman suffering from dementia. In the bed to my right was a young man with gastrointestinal distress who would swear when the pain got bad. Down the hall one way were two folks who had trouble NOT vomiting loudly every 15 minutes or so. And down the hall the other way was a woman who, as the night progressed, I learned was addicted to Vicodin. She would yell for Jesus, or the nurse or doctor -- or all three -- to deliver her from the horrible pain that she was experiencing. When she first came in I was sure she was dying. The staff would not give her what she wanted -- narcotics -- and so she wailed and she moaned and she cried.

Around 10 Fred had to leave since he would be driving his mother and Emma to the airport early the next morning and needed to get some sleep.

Around midnight, the nurse switched out my antibiotic for a stronger one. Still no pain meds. Still no anti-nausea meds. I was feeling worse than I did when I first got to the hospital, twelve hours earlier. I started shaking. Texting Fred. Wanting to go home. Wishing he would come and stay with me. Trying to call my nurse but she'd disappeared. Trying to block out the wailing lady and the puke sounds and the dinging and the beeps and the med students laughing and making inappropriate jokes within earshot.

When the nurse finally returned (holding chips and a lemonade; I hadn't eaten since some toast at 8 in the morning -- I was ravenous) I was able to get her attention, not steal her chips, and ask for pain meds. Which required a doctor's order. Which took too long to acquire. I longed for the previous nurse, who would say, "Dr. So-and-So, I'm going to give 2 of morphine to 20." And Dr. So-and-So would say, "Ok, I'm adding it now." Eventually the pain meds came, but she spilled the anti-nausea meds all over my arm. So another wait for another order. I also learned that the request for a bed had never been put in a computer.

At 3:30 a man with a wheelchair showed up -- my ride was here! He helped me into the chair, covered me with blankets, and told me he was taking me to my room. Where there would be a bed. With a pillow.

To be continued.

gut punched, part 1

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Tue, 14 Aug 2012 11:50:00 +0000

I was in the middle of writing a looooong post about how we found our new place and the absolute ADVENTURE (she said sarcastically) of buying it when something else way more exciting happened.

The week after we moved, I took vacation time, both to be able to unpack and get us settled, and also because Emma has no place to go until September 10 and I guess it's kind of frowned upon to leave your six-year-old alone all day. (KIDDING, Mom! We totally don't leave her alone.) Monday I decided we would get some things we needed, like sheets and milk and decorative throw pillows. I ate a bowl of cereal and the day went downhill from there. I immediately bloated up like a balloon, and I had some difficulty taking a deep breath because of the pressure. Tuesday was the same. Wednesday was worse, and I called my doctor. His nurse called me back and said he wanted me to take some prilosec because it was probably just acid. Ohhhkay. I spent most of Wednesday lying flat on my back because that was the only position that didn't hurt. Thursday was a little bit better, and Friday was the same as Thursday.

My mother-in-law was in town on Friday, staying briefly before taking Emma back to Massachusetts to spend the week. I thought it would be nice if the three of us walked over to Fred's office to meet him for lunch. We started out and almost immediately the pain began in my abdomen. It was high, right under my rib cage on the right side, and felt like someone was pushing VERY HARD every time I moved my legs or breathed. So, you know, constantly. 20 minutes later, we arrived at Fred's office and I was very nearly doubled over. Fred's building is not far from the hospital, so I just said I was going to walk over the emergency room. Fred said he'd go with me, we acquired lunch for his mother and Emma, and parted ways.

You know, it's amazing how fast they'll see you in an ER when you're a woman complaining of abdominal pain and shortness of breath. I hadn't even finished the intake process before they hooked me up to an EKG. It helped that they weren't busy, but still. I was in a bed within 10 minutes.

Lots of different doctors (it's a teaching hospital) asked lots of different questions and then an IV was inserted along with some pain meds. That coincided with being ultrasounded and three new doctors asking me questions at once. I was given dilaudid, a narcotic. All I could say was that my ears tingled. After the exams were done and everyone left, I looked at Fred and he just laughed. Honestly, I was not enjoying the drugs, and vocally expressed how I couldn't understand why people actively searched this stuff out. I know. I'm such a square. (Later, they switched my pain meds to morphine, which I tolerated much more easily but gave me a crazy headache. Argh.)

My nurse was great (she said that the anti-nausea meds would work "totes fast") and all of the doctors never made me feel stupid. Eventually I was taken away for a CT and then waited the requisite million hours for the results. When the doctor finally came in, I was pretty sure he was going to tell me my scan was clear and send me home. Until he introduced himself as a member of the surgery team.

[To be continued, aka Making You Wait Because I'm an Asshole.]

Hey look! We went on vacation!

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Thu, 19 Jul 2012 12:57:00 +0000

[I made the pictures on my last post BIGGER because I finally figured out how to use this newfangled contraption I'm on. So go have a look if you actually like being able to see who is in the pictures.]

Last November, Fred had a conference in Hawaii. Or as I like to call it, vacation. But last November was... not good. We canceled our trip.

Fast forward a few months when we realized that our condo in Kauai was still paid for and the airfare was paid for and hey! Let's go on vacation! So we did.

We asked Emma where she wanted to eat dinner at the airport before we left. She picked Macaroni Grill.

Whatevs. They have beer.

***

Our flight out of Chicago was delayed and we very nearly missed our connection in L.A. Fred is not a religious man but even he was praying that we wouldn't because he did NOT want to deal with me if we weren't going to be landing in Hawaii THAT NIGHT.

***

Thankfully, that didn't happen, and when we woke up, this was the view from our lanai. Good morning, happy island.

I highly recommend renting a condo for vacations, especially if you travel with smallish children. We would sit in the morning and watch the turtles play in the waves. Like so:

***

On our first morning on our way to breakfast we saw this mama hen with her chicks.

***

Our first day there was beach day. So I slathered sunscreen ALL OVER and off we went. We drove all over the island trying to find a sunny beach, and when we did the waves were insane. So we bailed on our plan and decided to head back for dinner. On our drive I noticed that my legs were itchy but I figured it was from the sea water.

Until the next morning when I woke up covered in hives. COVERED. Remember last year? Yeah, not even close. No matter! We had adventures already booked and paid for! I popped a benadryl and Emma and I went horseback riding.

The ranch dog. She was adorable.

Emma prepares.

Her trusty steed!

We rode out on a trail that led to these falls, where we stopped and had lunch and the guides told stories about Hawaii and its natives.

Emma wanted to swim but the water was FREEZING so we settled for feet.

If you look closely you can see that my neck and face are covered in bumps. Horrible, itchy bumps.

This jackass stole a woman's cookie right out of her hand.

After a long day of horseback riding, I always like to relax with a local beer.

***

The next day was my birthday. Happy 35 years! Here's a skin rash! The plan was for me to have the morning to relax so Fred booked a bike ride for him and Emma.

I KNOW. It was adorable. (Later, they got matching tattoos.)

I went in search of coffee and found a sign that obviously was made for me.

Um, it was windy.

But I found a nice stretch of beach, and contemplated it and other things until it started raining. And then I ran back to the car and read my book.

***

Later that day we made our way to the sunny side of the island for some serious beach time, HIVES BE DAMNED. And we saw this guy there.

HAWAIIAN MONK SEAL! He. Was. Amazing. They're highly protected so as soon as one comes up on the beach, men appear from nowhere and erect fencing around the seal so no one bothers it. He (or she, as it may have been) snoozed the whole time we were there, rolling around and snoring.

***

The next day was Sightseeing Day! We drove out to the lighthouse...

...and then continued to Hanalei...

"Dear god, that mermaid has THREE arms!"

***

The next morning we left the condo for our single day at a resort. I highly recommend this as well. They bring you drinks at the pool!

There was some boogie boarding...

...and some lazing around in the pool...

Then we had dinner and watched our last Hawaiian sunset.

***

Our flight left the next night so we crammed the day with souvenir shopping and coconut milk drinking.

Yeah. I'm ready to go back.

The day the internet came to Chicago

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Tue, 17 Jul 2012 00:15:00 +0000

I snagged a pass to go to C2E2 this April (free! professionals! pass! for librarians!) and then the internet all said THEY were coming too and plans were made and lo! It was exciting. Allow me to tell you via pictures since I really can't remember what happened at this point.

I took a picture of myself in the morning with my requisite comic-y shirt and brightly colored sweater so the internet would recognize me.

We're here! At C2E2! This was my first comic con and I really wanted to soak things in so I wandered by myself for a bit. Toby texted that he had spotted Sean Astin by the Captain America display so I wandered very quickly over there, but I missed him. So I took a picture of the display so as to make it seem that, yes, I really WAS interested in thissssszzzzz...

There is no picture of it but it was after this that I saw Anne and made her hug me like the creeper I am. Then I ran into Sarah, we squealed, and off we went to the next photo. I mean, session. Whatever.

Bill and Gene, the Unshelved guys. Funny. They made a bunch of people stand up and pretend to be specific types of library patrons, and in return they were given a hat. I was the loud drunk guy.

Then it was time for lunch! Sarah and I found Anne and Karl, located Toby, stood around for a bit staring sadly at the food options on the main floor, and then took off for better eats. We were joined by Lisa! and Rob! and Kristin! and Val! and we all hugged and talked all at the same time and marveled at the sounds of each other's voices.

Done with eating! Time for working!

Here we are waiting for Toby and Kristin's panel on libraries working with local comic shops.

Really blurry picture of Toby, the other person on their panel, and Kristin. And some dude. Hey, dude. (Ha!)

Sitting next to me but not pictured is Leah, who snuck into the panel. We attempted to scan a QR code unsuccessfully, which caused us to break into a fit of giggles. Then Leah left, the panel ended, and it was time to hit the exhibit floor!

click to embiggen!

First we stopped by the ALA booth for a group librarian shot.

Then there were hats. Rob tried them on. 'Allo, guvnor.

Prepping for steampunk day at work.

Then I creeped some more. This time, my subject was Chris Hardwick. The line to meet him was hilariously long but I can attest that he's not a large man but super cute. Like, you want to put him in your pocket.

Creepers be creepin', y'all.

Then some more solo wandering.

RUDY!!

These two were adorable.

And suddenly, it was night. Yep. Just like that. So it was time TO SING!

Margaret and Rob twist and shout.

Kelly and Robin ain't afraid of no ghosts.

Possibly one of my favorite pictures ever. Lisa tweeting and Val looking at Kristin in disbelief. Because really, what could possible cause Kristin THAT MUCH happiness?

Leah got a YAY! sticker and if you know Leah, then you know this is just damn perfect.

Lisa and Kristin: Just small town girls, living in a lonely world. That's all.

Yay, Val is going to sing! Wait, no. Just getting up to get another weird drink that tasted like banana runts.

Toby, Mike, and Julie are motorin'.

Kelly and Kristin are trying to explain that their hearts WILL go on. Probably in 3D, in fact.

And Val finally DOES sing, channeling her inner Pat Benatar.

Did I sing? Yeah, but I don't have any pictures of it. I seem to remember a group number of Hangin' Tough, and two duets: me and Kelly singing 9 to 5 and Val and I reminiscing about college with Wonderwall.

The room was the size of a closet and a million degrees but it was AWESOME.

fin.

i don't shampoo my hair

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 20:34:00 +0000

Forgive the lack of introduction, but I've been wanting to write this post for AGES, and now that I'm here, I need to get it out before I wander off and completely forget about it again.

So, long story short: I don't shampoo my hair. After I'd been using my homemade deodorant for a while, I started looking for other ways to make my body care more natural. I read a lot about this no-shampooing method and decided to give it a try. What I use now is after almost a year of fiddling with ratios, but it works for me and I have a feeling some version of it may work for you too.

Here's what I use to wash my hair (all photos taken with my phone because I'm lazy):

Baking soda and apple cider vinegar. That's it. When I first started, I was scooping and mixing and pouring and did I mention I was lazy? I had to come up with a simpler solution that wasn't leaving me with a stack of dishes.

Solution, part 1. Rather than having to go out to the kitchen every time I wanted to take a shower, because I would realize I'd forgotten everything when one leg was already under the water, I decided to keep my ingredients in the bathroom. I used a canister that was previously holding q-tips for the baking soda, and tossed in a teaspoon measure. For the vinegar, I repurposed an empty Philosophy face wash PLASTIC bottle. Very important. The glass canister does not go in the shower with me. Everything that does is plastic. Because along with being lazy, I'm a klutz.

Solution, part 2. I still needed to figure out how to keep from measuring and mixing all morning. Enter the plastic candy bottle from Michael's. I premarked the liquid levels with a Sharpie and now my morning routine is MUCH easier. So how do I do it?

3 teaspoons [or 1 Tablespoon] baking soda go into the plastic bottle. I get in the shower and fill the bottle with water to the top black line (3/4 c). Shake shake shake. Then I squeeze the mixture onto my scalp with one hand and scrub (gently!) with the other, moving the bottle all over my head to make sure I reach every place. The key is to get the baking soda to the scalp and roots of the hair, where the majority of the grease and oil are. Yeah, yeah, ick. We all have it. When the mixture runs out, use both hands to "shampoo" the baking soda all over. Rinse.

Then! Fill the plastic squirt bottle with apple cider vinegar to the bottom black line (1 1/2 Tablespoons) and fill with water to the top black line. Shake shake shake. Squeeze the mixture ALL OVER YOUR HEAD. If you have long hair, pay close attention to the ends. This is going to act as the conditioner, and make your hair all smooth and shiny. Same as the baking soda: when it's all done, massage into hair. Rinse.

Now, some key points:

* Yes, it's vinegar. Yes, you will smell it while you're putting it in your hair. No, you won't smell it all day. Once your hair is dry, the vinegar smell is gone. TRUST.

* CLOSE YOUR EYES with the vinegar. Again, trust me on this one.

* I usually leave the vinegar in the way I would conditioner, like while I shave or something.

* That's it.

Oh, one more! I had read that one's scalp and hair may take up 6 weeks to get used to not having shampoo. Mine took about a week, but yours may take longer. Don't give up! Also, depending on your hair, you may be able to get away with doing this every other day. I use product in my hair and it starts to feel gross after about 36 hours, so I don't.

There you have it. It's fast. It's cheap. It's totally natural. Why aren't you doing it already?

briefly

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Wed, 07 Mar 2012 15:26:00 +0000

HI! HI! HI!

So I was sick and then I felt better and then my kid got REALLY sick and I got no sleep and Fred was sleeping everywhere but in his bed because that's where my really sick kid was, and then she got better and then I got REALLY sick, like, sicker than I've been in years, and I would lie in bed and moan and wake Fred up in the middle of the night to say, hey, I'm really sick, and so he left his bed again, and after many days of being REALLY sick, I got better and now I have energy and can eat and Fred can sleep in his bed again, and we're ALL HAPPY.

How are you?

tuesday, tuesday, gotta get down on tuesday

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 14:13:00 +0000

And a good morning to you!

Let's see, since we last spoke, I opened my Etsy shop and slowly began driving my family crazy. Yay for indie businesses!

Honestly, opening the shop has been awesome. I am so happy and so excited, and yes, there are road bumps (including a major one that made me weep last night, but that I've hopefully solved, MacGuyver-style), but I love making these products and sharing them. Plus, you know, they smell good. That's always a bonus.

Two (and a half) shop-related things to tell you about:

1. I'm having a GRAND OPENING SALE! That's right, all items are available for a seriously low and awesome price until February 29, so grab your goodies now and get hooked.

1.5 There's a Facebook page for the store. Like away like a mad person and learn about new products and relish the opportunity to call me out in public.

2. Carrie is hosting a CUH-RAZY giveaway on her blog -- it's bento madness! I really didn't want to tell you about this giveaway because I love bentos and I don't want anyone to enter because I want to win ALL THE BENTOS but Carrie is hilarious and super sweet (and hawt, ya'll) and offered me a little spot on her site to peddle my wares. Go enter her giveaway and then stay for the blog.

there is no title for this one

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 14:01:00 +0000

There are some, er, technical difficulties with the shop right now. Namely, a sick kid and my paranoia that the germs are traveling en masse via a green cloud of doom straight for my sinuses. So there's been a lot of napping and juice drinking and generally not doing much of anything. Just a regular week here!

Today is my dad's birthday. He would have been 62. I miss him. I dream about him a lot -- mostly dreams where he's annoying the shit out of me. I wake up feeling relieved that I'm still capable of remembering all of him, not just the good parts. There's never any feeling in the dream of wrongness or "you're not supposed to be here" stuff. Just... life with my dad. I'm glad that even though he's not here anymore I can still have that conversation with him where I keep repeating something and he's not getting it and I throw up my hands in frustration and he chuckles and we move on to talking about something else. Maybe he's somewhere having that same conversation with me.

...and we're back!

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 14:11:00 +0000

{I hope those of you who stopped by yesterday and were like, SOPA WHAT? clicked around and read about it. As a librarian -- and a person with feelings -- I'm against censorship. And against plain old stupidity. OK! Moving on.}

I have super exciting news!

I GOT A PONY!

Oh. Wait. No, sorry.

I GOT AN ETSY SHOP!

For the holidays, I decided I wanted to give my friends something handmade but that didn't involve copious amounts of butter and sugar. Not because I don't believe in butter and sugar -- because DO I EVER -- but because I wanted something that would last a little bit longer than a few days without going stale. I was going to be shipping some of these gifts across the country to recipients who would be traveling, and I wasn't sure how long my sad little box would sit unattended at their door.

So! I made a sugar scrub. You know, for hands and such. Well, mostly for hands. And a lip balm. FOR THE LIPS. And my mom helped me package it and she also tested some of my early mixes. The batch that won was the one that made her say, "I'd pay for this. And I know a lot of people who would pay for it, too."

DING!

I turned the idea over and over, and decided that yes. I could do this. I could sell this. I would make it and it would be lovely, and I would put pictures of it online, and perhaps people would click and think, "Oh! Doesn't that look lovely! And my hands are so dry and grizzled from this hideous winter weather. A scrub would be just the solution." And then send money to my Pay Pal account and in return receive a pretty package from me with their winter weather solution.

I labored over a name. All the good ones were taken. I wanted clever but not cutesy. I wanted the name to give a shopper an idea of ME and of what the products represented. And so, after much haranguing of the internet and my husband, I woke up in the middle of the night with the name. It's not a show stopper. It's not going to make anyone chuckle. But it's the name that stuck.

The shop's not quite ready yet. I'm planning the grand opening for this weekend. There will be goodies -- I hope you stop by. I'm so excited about this venture of mine. It's a test for me in so many ways, and I'm ready for the challenge.

{I also want to thank all of the folks who helped me brainstorm name ideas and supported my ideas and asked for more! information! because yay! indie business! You guys are the best.}

And so, introducing...

Seriously. So excited.

tomorrow

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 20:41:00 +0000

Here we are. The eve of a new year.

For obvious reasons, I won't be doing any wrap-up posts. I'm ready to move on, move forward, take steps, and LIVE.

I've thought a lot about what I want to do in the coming year. I don't like to think of them as resolutions, because as I've mentioned, that just leads to disappointment. And I'm not sure that calling them goals is exactly right either. More like, wishes. Hopes.

I want to keep reading.

I want to keep writing.

I want to make something pretty.

I want to be here more.

I want to be with my family more.

I want to be a better librarian.

I want to bake something good.

I want to start something new.

I want to finish something I've already started.

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 17:51:00 +0000

I haven't known what to say.

I talk to some people about it. I don't talk to others about it.

I don't cry.

I'm probably not acknowledging that Sunday will come and hit me over the head. I'm hoping for a speedy arrival of Monday.

I know that some are made uncomfortable by others' grief, and that's the main reason why I haven't come here and said anything. But another truth is that I'M uncomfortable with my own grief. It doesn't fit right. I'm not sure what to do with it. Do I wear it? Carry it in a bag with me? Put it in a drawer to take out and look at every now and then? Or swallow it, and feel it sit in my stomach, cold and hard.

There have been other things I've wanted to say here, things that have nothing to do with illness and death and fathers and shitty mornings and waking up at 3 am wondering why I can't go back to sleep and then Oh, right. That. Happy things. Pretty, shiny things.

Before I can share those things with you, though, I wanted to share something else. I need to post this. To release it. Then I can tell you about the pretties.

When my dad was sick, he told my mom what he wanted for his memorial service. Specifically, the hymns he wanted. He also said no eulogies were to be given. She stopped him and asked him -- what if I, his only child, wanted to say something. Fine, he relented. But only her.

I both did and didn't want to give the eulogy. I wanted to because he allowed it. Because I could tell people what I thought of him and how much I loved him. I didn't because... well. It was his funeral. I honestly didn't know if I could physically do it. If I could stand. If I could speak. But I did. Here it is.

***

I'm not sure where to start this. How to tell you about my dad. Which, honestly, I probably don't have to do. Each and every one of you knew him. We've been struck the past two weeks by learning just how many lives he touched, and how deeply people cared for him. From his very best friends here at church to the receptionist at the condo management office. We knew he was gentle and generous, loving and kind, funny and accepting. What has amazed us is that EVERYONE saw that in him. That's who he was, inside and out, no matter who you were.

From a very young age I knew my dad was different. That he saw in people something others didn't. When I was a child, he was a juvenile probation officer, and I called his probationers his babies, because he treated them as he treated his own child, with love and respect and honesty. My mom and I would joke that my dad had no boundaries when it came to getting to know someone. The best example I have of this is from a family vacation when I was 12. We had gone out to dinner and the waiter connected with my dad so much that when his shift was over, he came and sat down with us for the remainder of our meal, just so he could continue talking to my my dad. Over and over, my friends would tell me how much they loved my dad, how instantly at ease they felt with him, how it felt like they had known him forever. He made everyone feel this way. The last time I saw him, he was in the ICU and he had a smile and a joke for every person who came into his room. And when my mom and I would come in each morning, he had the biggest smile for us. Unless he didn't like his breakfast.

He was stronger than anyone of us could ever hope to be. When he first got sick he wasn't supposed to live a year. He fought and he survived each battle and he lived eleven more amazing years. Each year left us feeling like we had received a gift. We wanted to be normal about it, not make a big deal about each birthday, but it was hard not to. He'd done it again.

I wish I had to time to tell you everything about him, but I'll have to settle for some of my favorites. Sitting at the dining room table with him in the morning when I was 5, he with his coffee and me with my milk, singing Gilbert and Sullivan. Having him join me Saturday mornings to watch Looney Tunes cartoons. Having him do the same with his granddaughter. Our date when I was in high school to see the latest Star Trek movie. Making fun of my mom's choice of music, teasing her about bubblegum pop, and then his introducing me to the extended length version of In a Gadda de Vida. Asking him to please pick the music for my wedding and knowing he would be there to hear it. That his cell phone ring tone was the Harry Potter theme. He was the most brilliant person I have ever known, and as a kid I loved just flipping open a dictionary and asking him to define the weirdest, longest words I could find. And he did. Every time. His absolute love of science fiction, and his joy when I would recommend a book to him. Watching him read to my daughter, her in his lap as I had been so many years before.

It is because of him that I have the sense of humor I have, that I read the way I do, that I listen to the music I do, and that I love the way I do. He taught me that, just as he taught each person he met to love and be loved by him.

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 17:29:00 +0000

Yesterday was our first holiday without my dad. I can't say that Thanksgiving was my dad's favorite. For the most part Thanksgiving was spent with my mom's family. Imagine as many conversations as there are people, all happening simultaneously. Loudly. In multiple languages. My dad would hang out on the fringes, drinking his coffee and reading or chatting quietly with my uncle. My mom and I would pass by and check on him, make a snarky comment or three, and then dive back into the commotion. He would join us for the meal, which he always told my grandmother was perfectly prepared.

My favorite childhood Thanksgiving memory was when we stayed home, the three of us, and I woke up early to the sound and smell of my dad getting the turkey ready. That's what I kept remembering that yesterday. It's what I'll remember next year, and the year after that.

One down. Way too many to go.

right now

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 19:40:00 +0000

I have an appointment to get my haircut in an hour, my house is dark and I'm eating last night's leftovers for lunch, AND I already know what I'm going to make for tonight's dinner, so take that (are vegetables REALLY necessary?), and lately I've been walking around with a permanently clenched jaw because my dad was denied the heart pump because his aorta's too crunchy (actual medical term) and so it's just a matter of maximizing the efficacy of his meds (does anyone else love the word efficacy?), BUT he's walking almost on his own now and totally eating and pissing off my mom so I think he's feeling better; I still have a sore throat and have decided that this cold and I are done, finito, and can I have a vacation now?

That was the longest sentence I've ever written. If I'd known that's how it was going to go, I would have alerted Guinness.

six

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 13:21:00 +0000

Happy Birthday to the best six-year-old girl around.

the whole shebang

noreply@blogger.com (carolyn) — Sat, 29 Oct 2011 01:37:00 +0000

Well.

I've been wanting to write a long, comprehensive post about my dad but haven't had the time, energy, emotional fortitude, or enough booze.

On January 26, 2000--the day after his 50th birthday--my father had a massive myocardial infarction. A heart attack. My mom told me just yesterday that they call the type he had a "widow-maker" and the situation would have had a very different ending if the ambulance hadn't gotten there when it did.

Eleven years...

(Eleven years means my mom and I have become well-versed in cardio medical terminology. We have to be. There are doctors who assume we don't know what we're talking about so a demonstration to them must be made. Other doctors [the ones who have stuck around] know we're aware and educated about the situation and talk to us as equals instead of country bumpkins.)

(To be very clear, some of my best friends are doctors. I have nothing against doctors. I just don't like assholes.)

...one triple-bypass, numerous stents, a failed candidacy for transplant, five more heart attacks, and several hundreds of dollars worth of medications per month later, here we are.

And where are we exactly? End-stage congestive heart failure.

About three weeks ago (I think, since time holds little meaning at this point), my dad began having trouble breathing and having chest pain. It sounded like a heart attack. Off to the hospital he and my mom go. Not a heart attack but pneumonia. See, congestive heart failure (CHF) causes your body to retain fluid, and it will often collect in the lungs. It also can cause swelling in places like the ankles and the feet. But my dad didn't have any of that so the outward signs of CHF weren't there. But they were there in his lungs. So he began a dose of antibiotics as well as a diuretic to eliminate the extra fluid. There were a few ER trips that week as they worked to adjust meds, determine oxygen at home was needed, and establish a plan. I flew out to Tucson and stayed with my mom. We spent all of our days in the hospital with my dad, who took great pains to assure me that he would be fine. I stayed for a long weekend and he was discharged the day after I left.

The next ten days brought a marked change in my dad. He ate very little, he slept a lot. He grew weaker. Then, over the phone, the call came from cardiologist's office to double his dose of diuretic. Within 24 hours, he was back in the hospital. He hasn't left.

There have been two major mistakes that we can see having contributed to his current decline. One was a pharmacy mix-up with his thyroid medication. (Oh, right. He has hypothyroidism as well.) The second was the doubling of the diuretic. It severely dehydrated him (he also had a limit on how much fluid he could drink) and caused his blood pressure to plummet. He expressed the thought that he was dying (he apologized at the time if it seemed melodramatic, and he is NEVER melodramatic), my mom called 911, and I flew back on the first flight the next morning.

My mom & I watched him crash at the hospital, and a rapid response team was called in. You know on ER or Grey's Anatomy when a bazillion people come and crowd around a patient's bed and yell questions at him and orders at each other? Yeah, like that. We watched my dad's blood pressure steadily decrease and his heart rate follow suit. People kept shouting things about not being able to get a temp. They turned on ALL the lights above his bed and had him flat on his back. My mom and I huddled together in the corner, clutching each other. They stabilized him, he crashed again (though not as significantly) about 45 minutes later, and was summarily transferred to ICU.

Over the next few days they were able to get his blood pressure raised and the fluid balanced. He was moved to a regular room, and everything fell apart again. He wasn't able to stay awake and he was there was major disorientation and tremors. He was only able to handle liquids, and there were at least two days when we thought we were losing him. I don't like euphemisms for death but that's what it honestly felt like. He was slipping away.

Backing up a bit. My dad has a pacemaker/defibrillator implanted in his chest. A little while ago, it began beeping. The battery was low and needed to be replaced. The procedure was scheduled for the end of September but ha ha, he was in the hospital. No problem--it was rescheduled for the end of October. October 28. Today.

Ok, back to last week. It was determined that instead of simply replacing the battery perhaps an entirely new device was needed. So we waited. This was Thursday. On Sunday, we were told maybe he could get the new device on Tuesday. Then we found out that the surgeon was out of town. Ok, call another. No, he's out of town too. And then there was radio silence from everyone until Wednesday morning when a nurse came in and told us that the transfer to another hospital was in process, as though we were already aware. I told her she had the wrong room. Within half an hour, we were finally told a little of what was going on. The surgeon who was supposed to change the battery, then implant a new device, had been faxed my dad's most recent EKGs. She nixed the new pacer and said he would need an LVAD--a left ventricular assistive device. Oh, we said. That's why the transfer. Ok, we said. That's all we knew. We didn't even know when the transfer would happen, so in the event of a middle of the night trip, my mom and I spent the night in my dad's room.

(We ordered a cot. We were told none were available. There was an empty bed in the room but we were told in no uncertain terms that we were NOT to get in it. We gazed longingly at it all night. My mom likened it to holding a large glass of water just out of the reach of a parched man.)

Yesterday afternoon an ambulance drove my dad across town to the hospital at the university (for those of you not from Arizona, you've probably seen this hospital on the news; it's the one Gabby Giffords was taken to when she was shot). And he was back in ICU. The first thing my mom and I noticed was the recliner AND pull out bed. We were working on about 3 hours of sleep, with our longest stretch being 90 minutes, and we'd already been up about 12 hours. While the nurse drew some blood from my dad's picc line, we asked when we might see Dr. I., the surgeon who had recommended the LVAD (and who was going to implant a new device originally). The nurse asked why we were asking, and we said, "Well, because she'll put in the LVAD?" "Oh, no. She doesn't do those." (We suspected as much but, you know, no one told us otherwise.) "Dr. S. will do the surgery."

So we waited for Dr. S., who, as it turns out, is MAYBE five years old than me and has way better hair. She was fantastic. She asked my dad to tell her his whole story and she listened thoughtfully the whole time. She explained that his situation--heart disease that starts at a young age--has taken a typical path. Then she explained his options. Continued medical therapy, transplant, or LVAD. She warned that the requirements for both the transplant and the LVAD are very strict (the transplant more than the LVAD). She also said she strove for maintaining QUALITY of life, not quantity. The battery of tests for evaluation would begin first thing in the morning.

And so my mom and I went home, bleary-eyed and dreaming of a pillow and soft surface on which to lie. We slept the sleep of the drugged and severely sleep-deprived. This morning, we felt normal.

(Honestly, we've forgotten what real normal feels like.)

That brings us to today. The evaluations have included enough blood drawn to dessicate a small cow, an echocardiogram (that the tech let us watch and explained it all as he went along --the benefit of being in a teaching hospital), and a two and a half hour stay in the catheter lab, where they did an angiogram to investigate flow and blocks, and to insert a Swan line.

And here we are.

When will we know what will happen? We don't know. We may not know for days or even weeks.

So we wait. And watch. And hope. Mostly hope.