Category Archives: carpe diem

The Story of Us (The Early Days), in Honor of Our 15th Anniversary

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Fifteen years ago, I was trying to stave off senioritis long enough to get through the last month of college. Easter fell on April 12, 1998, but it wasn’t a long enough weekend for me to go home to see my family. Instead, I went to the movies with friends. We saw Primary Colors,  and today the only thing I remember about the film was that I recognized Oak Alley Plantation, which was familiar because my high school friend Penelope had taken me to see it when I’d visited her in Louisiana on my spring break the month before.

Penelope and I had known each other since kindergarten, but our friendship had not weathered adolescence well. We’d been best friends through middle school and the start of high school, but then things got rocky. I was unhappy at home and, seeking comfort and belonging, I started hanging out with boys my friends didn’t like and letting my hormones do too much of my thinking. Penelope did not approve. She’s always been smarter and more mature than me, but back then, she was just another judgmental killjoy trying to tell me what to do. We fought more and more often. We said unforgivable things, and then we stopped being friends.

It had been about four or five years since we’d hung out or even spoken to each other when Penelope e-mailed me in the Spring of 1996. She was about to graduate from college and invited me to her senior art show. I was carrying about a bazillion credits that semester and barely had time to shower, much less socialize, so I didn’t go, but I was glad to hear from her. That summer when we both got home from school, we had lunch together, then went for a walk along the Burlington waterfront. I was relieved to find our high school resentments had evaporated, and we were able to talk and joke as easily as we had before we’d parted ways. She had only a few weeks at home before she was due to go to Houston, TX for Teach for America’s teacher training program, and from there to a two-year commitment teaching Special Education in South Louisiana.

When she left, we exchanged letters. I sent her care packages with baked goods and goofy knickknacks I picked up at various shops in Burlington and Northampton. She sent me letters filled with black-ink sketches, snippets of poetry, funny anecdotes about her students, and lyrical descriptions of places she visited and things that she did. Very rarely, we’d be home in Vermont at the same time, and we’d get together for a few hours, but these letters and brief visits soon proved insufficient to nourish the friendship that was rapidly growing more intense than it had ever been in childhood. We started emailing and talking on the phone daily.

We joked about all we had in common. My senior year (her second year in Louisiana), we were both single, but both casually seeing guys who paid far too little attention to us except for the occasional booty call, and even these guys were freakishly similar: their names began with the same letter, they were both artists, they seemed to share many of the same annoying (to us) peccadilloes. (They were not actually the same person: we did not have that much in common!) As Penelope and I bitched together, hour after hour, about these inadequate non-boyfriends, I began to consider whether we wouldn’t be better off just kicking the guys to the curb and taking up with one another, but I didn’t say anything. Penelope had never expressed any interest in women. (As for me, I was at Smith. ‘Nuf said.)

Penelope invited me down to Louisiana to visit her on my spring break. I went, and we had a blast in New Orleans and stayed up late every night talking and snuggling, but though we were closer than ever, we didn’t cross that line. We didn’t even talk about crossing that line.

Back to Easter 1998: When I got back from the movie theater, I called Penelope to share my excitement at recognizing Oak Alley, but she didn’t answer. All weekend, she didn’t answer, and then Sunday night, she called… from Vermont. She’d gone home to visit her dad for Easter, and didn’t have to go back South until Tuesday, and could she drive down and visit me tomorrow? Of course, I agreed, and then I didn’t sleep all night. It felt like our relationship was coming to a tipping point: I thought we were very, very close to becoming lovers, and I’d gladly nudge us over that edge, if only I could be sure she’d be interested. I didn’t want to freak her out and wreck our friendship again. It was better to have her in my life as a friend than not at all.

Monday morning, someone knocked on the doorjamb of the glorified supply closet in the bowels of the art building where I spent nearly twenty hours a week at my work study job, selling art supplies to a parade of eye-popping misfits. (Many Smithies enjoy an eccentric personal aesthetic, but the art majors are a cut above.) I looked up and there was Penelope, having gotten directions from someone in my house. We hugged and laughed about the fact that our trend toward eerie similarity remained unbroken: without discussion, we were dressed exactly alike, in red t-shirts, dark-wash jeans, and black shoes.

She had brought my Easter basket from home, stopping by my parents’ house and demanding it like a chocolate terrorist, waiting impatiently in the foyer until my mother turned it over, while our dog barked madly. (I hadn’t asked her to do that, but I must have mentioned that my mother had said she’d have a basket waiting for me when next I came home.)

We went to dinner with Penelope’s mom that night, driving up to Brattleboro to meet her. We came back to school and watched a movie until someone kicked us out of the living room because they’d reserved the TV. We went back to my room, and the whole time I was a crazy tangle of nerves and anticipation, wondering if I should say anything, wondering if the change in our relationship felt as imminent, as inevitable to her as it did to me, or if my years at Smith had twisted my perspective on feminine intimacy so that I could no longer appreciate female friendship without sex.

In the end, I don’t remember either of us making the first move. It just happened, organically, inevitably, as it was meant to. Fifteen years ago this very morning, we got out of bed feeling as if the magnetic poles of the earth had shifted and everything was suddenly different, suddenly put to right, and we didn’t have to worry. She flew back to Louisiana that afternoon. She had two more months to fulfill her teaching commitment, and I had one more month until I graduated. Neither of us knew what would happen next, but we knew we’d be together — we knew we had to be together.

Happy anniversary, my dearest love. Here’s to the next fifteen years, and the next after that, and the next after that….

-C.

Serenity NOW!!!!

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When I was little, my Dad used to get fed up with my incessant fidgeting and offer to give me a quarter if I stayed still for five minutes. I don’t remember earning a single quarter, and not because I didn’t try. ‘Still’ just isn’t something I do with any grace. I am fundamentally un-serene.

We’ve known from the beginning, when I got pregnant using the same donor we used when Penelope carried Hank, that preeclampsia might be an issue. Preeclampsia, aka pregnancy-induced hypertension, or PIH, is a prenatal disorder usually marked by high blood pressure, proteinuria (protein in the urine), elevated uric acid, edema (water retention) especially in the hands and face, abdominal pain especially on the right side, headaches, and blurred vision. If left untreated, it can worsen and develop into eclampsia, the seizure disorder that (spoiler alert) killed Lady Sybil in a recent episode of Downton Abbey.*

Our doctor said there is some chance that the risk of developing preeclampsia might have some genetic link to the donor sperm. She wasn’t at all surprised when we learned that some of the Sister-Wives had also developed preeclampsia during their pregnancies, and so she’s been watching for it all along. (Penelope and I also suspect she’s a little bit hypervigilant about it because she feels bad about missing Penelope’s diagnosis until her pre-e was so severe, but in Dr. Dalton’s defense, Penelope’s condition had a very unusual presentation in its early stages: she was vomiting and had severe heartburn, but she didn’t have high BP, much swelling, proteinuria or headaches until just a few days before she delivered Hank, at which point she was already dangerously sick.)

At almost every prenatal appointment so far, Dr. Dalton has frowned worriedly as she noted the presence of protein in my urine. Last week (32 weeks, 5 days gestation), I had a slightly-higher-than-usual (but still normal) blood pressure, but I had not had any of the other symptoms (except the proteinuria): no unusual swelling or chest pain (some swelling and heartburn are both typical in late pregnancy), no blurred vision, and my headaches have actually improved with pregnancy. Doc was worried enough to order a 24-hour urine collection (yup, that’s just what it sounds like: I peed in a jug for a whole day), and when the results came in, they only worried her more. More than 300mg protein in a 24-hour urine test is considered high; my results last weekend exceeded 750mg.

But, yeah, enough about my pee. Anyway, Doc’s office called and asked to see me ASAP, and I went back yesterday afternoon. I knew from Penelope’s go-round with it that preeclampsia can be ‘managed’ with medication, diet, and bed rest, but it only has one cure: almost always, the condition resolves itself once the baby is delivered. Penelope was diagnosed at 36 weeks, almost full term, so they skipped the treatment and went right for the cure: induction of labor. I was, yesterday, only 33 weeks, 4 days, so I knew if they diagnosed me with pre-e, the rest of my pregnancy would take a very different course than that which I’d planned — I’d probably be on bed rest until delivery.

I spent the last few days at work trying to get my work load in order so that my colleagues could take over if I had to leave suddenly. It’s funny: looking back over the last few days, I had a rational understanding that I might be put on bed rest, but I also had a contradictory confidence that this wouldn’t happen to me. I feel much better than Penelope did at the end of her pregnancy. My BP is fine. I don’t have any symptoms except for proteinuria, but I’ve had that since the first trimester, and so maybe that’s just some quirky personal trait.

Yesterday, Dr. Dalton ordered more labs. My uric acid is elevated, too, so that’s another symptom of pre-e. Doc says that’s enough for her to believe that if I don’t have full-blown pre-e yet, I’m “headed down that path” and she’s treating me as if I have it. That means an evaluation with the high risk OB-GYN specialist at DHMC, 3x weekly doctor’s appointments to monitor BP, weight, and urine, 2x weekly non stress tests, and ultrasounds to monitor fetal growth every 1-2 weeks. That’s a lot of obligations to heap on a gal’s plate, and then in the next breath tell her she’s not allowed to drive. My poor mother-in-law is now not just Hank’s daycare provider, but has also just become my personal chauffeur (to my shame).

-And yes, when I’m not at the doctor’s office, I’m on bed rest. I don’t know how I’ll manage, especially with Hank running around, urging me to play with him and take him on adventures.  We’ve tried to explain it to him, and he’s a bright kid, but he’s two. Hank’s not the biggest problem, though: the biggest problem is that I am as unserene as ever, and stillness is not a thing I do with any grace.

-C.

*As my mother so helpfully pointed out when I told her my diagnosis. Gee, thanks, Mum.

Image

Hank, trying to examine the Baby Person (with a flashlight).

 

Link

Avery’s Bucket List

I had been following Avery’s Bucket List (click the title of this post for the link) for a couple of weeks and was devastated to check in this morning and learn she’d succumbed to Spinal Muscular Atrophy (SMA) on Monday. God Bless this little angel and her parents for making something so beautiful and positive out of such a heartbreaking diagnosis. My prayers are with them; I share their grief. I made a diagnosis in Avery’s honor to Sophie’s Cure to raise money for SMA research — I hope if you are able, you will do the same.

-C

Photo Credit: Avery’s Daddy (Avery’s Bucket List)

Orange Cheese on a Rainy Afternoon

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I wrote my law school application essay about white (as opposed to orange) cheddar cheese. I don’t remember exactly what I wrote: something about community and knowing where one’s food comes from and what’s in it and my longing to get back to New England where the cheddar is white and all is right with the world. It seems kind of ridiculous now, but it must have impressed the admissions committee, since they gave me a scholarship.

All of this is a segue to this picture, taken today during Hank’s lunch:

That’s right, folks: I fed my boy orange cheese. Not even local orange cheese, if indeed such a thing exists: orange, processed almost beyond recognition, wrapped in plastic, no doubt chock full of nasty preservatives…. Oh, the shame! But he likes it, and it’s easy.

A significant part of the journey of parenthood is learning how to prioritize and manage expectations, and then to forgive ourselves our inevitable shortcomings. Yeah, we’d have loved to be the kind of moms who make all our own baby food, who know a zillion cool and crafty activities to do with kids of all ages, who are organized enough to keep a clean house and a soothing and enriching child-rearing routine… but we’re not.

We managed to live up to some of the aspirations we had before Hank was born, certainly. We cloth diaper, though lots of people warned us it would be a ton of work. (It isn’t, but here’s my secret: I actually like to do laundry–don’t tell anyone.) We’ve started potty training, with some success, though everyone says it’s way too early. We read to Hank a lot, and between the two of us, we know a lot of nursery songs.

Our boy is happy and thriving, so I try to let go of guilt over our messy house, the dubious nutritional value of orange cheese sticks, and the dozen or so things I ought to be doing right now to take advantage of the quiet hour while my son naps. I will do none of those things, and when he wakes, I will still have work e-mails to reply to, and the dishes will still be dirty, the floors will still need cleaning, the laundry will not be done. I will stay here where I am, on the couch with my boy in my lap, typing with one hand with the laptop precariously balanced on the arm of the sofa, because there will always be more e-mails, more dishes, more cleaning, more laundry. These quiet moments with my sweet little monkey snoring softly, warm and heavy in my arms — these moments are fleeting and so much more important.

-C