Detour: Temporary Housing

Here it is again, that question: "Who's normal?". . . and why exactly is it normal to eat pb. Why is the peanut, or peanut butter more specifically, such a staple in American households? More important than that though, is my need. . . my need to eat the stuff and have a moment when I think, "There are thousands of people, at this moment, eating peanut butter. At this very moment, I am just like them."

I know I made a promise to you all, a promise of an uncle's death today, but instead I'd like to detour. I'd like to take you to "temporary housing".

                         

As with many of the great tragedies in my life, this one started with an early morning phone call. "Get down here, you have to come to family court, they’re about to put your nieces in foster care. You can take them instead, just make a request of the judge. Hurry." It was my mother, frantic with worry, my oldest brother's children were about to be taken away. There is something you must understand before I go on, I was raised by my mother, and he was raised by his father's family. We didn't meet until we were teenagers. I always knew he existed, but the reality of him was another thing. We grew up with different values, different ways of communicating, different ways of thinking. We weren't close. So, although I didn't hesitate to go to the court, I wasn't sure how I would be greeted.

When I reached the courthouse I saw my mother sitting on a bench being comforted by a cousin of mine. She kept saying how she didn't want her grandchildren to go to foster care. She was rocking back and forth and the hard wooden court bench and breaking my heart. Of all the people in my family, the many brothers, uncles, aunts, and cousins, I was the only one who could stop this.

When the case was called, I saw my brother and his girlfriend. I couldn't believe my eyes! Here I was in a Tahari suit and heels, and they were in jeans and sneakers. My brother’s girlfriend actually had a scarf on her head! How do you fight for your children when you can't be presentable for court? I was astonished. I walked into the courtroom and listened to the charges. Neglect. I listened as lawyers and social workers described the condition of their home. I was in shock, and I wanted to sweep away my nieces and nephews into my arms to somewhere safe. As the judge was about to order my nieces and nephews into foster care, all 8 of them, I stood up and said I could take 3 of my nieces. I explained my situation, that I had a one bedroom apartment and a husband, and that I could help support them financially with some savings I had although I was in between consulting jobs. Thankfully, I was given the approval to take them.

At home, I blew up an air mattress, moved some furniture, and put up shelving to keep their things. I put snacks on the table, sat down at it letting my eyes glaze over trying to mentally prepare myself for taking on the responsibility of three little ones aged 4, 6, and 7.

When they arrived, I gave them a good once over. Their physical condition was appalling. One had sores in her head and a thick mess of dandruff, all of their teeth were rotten, and they had severe personal hygiene issues. The first thing we did was get a large piece of construction paper and write down the rules of the house; no lying, no stealing, no hitting, no going into the kitchen without an adult. There were consequences written too. No snacks, no tv, no games, no going outside, and time-outs - depending on the severity of the "crime". There it was, we created order for children who didn't know reasonable discipline and who had never had well-defined rules. Next was hygiene. That night I showed them how to brush their teeth properly and how to wash. I scheduled time to make phone calls for doctor and dentist appointments. I had already enrolled them in school earlier that day and I readied their book bags with supplies for class the next day.

I felt so in control of the situation, I felt so prepared. I had a plan, and I was ready to implement - I wanted to get their young lives back on track. But most of all, I wanted them to know that they were loved and safe and protected. I wanted them to know that no matter what they had to say I would listen. I wanted them to know that this was a home for them.

And so it began, the doctors’ visits, the dentist visits, the sibling visits, the parental visits, the social worker visits, the psychiatrist visits, the school visits. It was exhausting keeping up with the appointments to evaluate their physical and mental health, but they were troopers, and we got through it together.

My husband and I worked on homework with them, we took them to parks, we had fashion shows and danced together, we took them to fancy restaurants and places they had never been before. To see the look of wonder in their eyes and the joy on their faces was priceless. I loved them so much, I wished they were mine, but I never forgot my place, I was their aunt - not their mother.

Each parental visit became more and more difficult, the girls had begun calling my husband and me mom and dad despite my constant corrections. Sometimes they would do this in front of their parents. Then there were the discussions about the children's health. I always wanted to let my brother and his girlfriend know what was going on with the girls, but they were often defensive. I told them of the many teeth that needed to be removed due to the over 20 cavities between them, I told them of the treatments for vaginal infections, and the scalp and skin ointments. They took this as accusations; they weren't good parents. Often my updates would lead to arguments. Meanwhile I was in a position where I had to report when the girls were hit in front of me, and how the girls squirreled away the food and snacks I would leave on the table as if they were used to being hungry, how they brought food from school and asked for more. . .

The girls were precious to me, I couldn't understand how my brother let it get to this. To me they were jewels, I treated them no differently than if they were mine, and I could not forgive the absurdity of the situation, the pain and hurt he helped to cause these girls that they couldn't voice. One day, at a museum, the girls were unhappy about a punishment of no snacks for destroying some property. Their parents wanted to give them a snack despite the fact they had broken the rules. I disagreed with this, they needed to be taught discipline, and I told the girls that if they took it they would have an extra day added to their punishment. This set their mother off, she was screaming at me on the street corner a few blocks from the museum; I would never be their mother, I was a bitch, I would make an awful mother and probably wouldn't have children. Then she charged at me, she wanted to fight. Meanwhile my brother was threatening to hit the girls if they didn't take the snacks. That was it for me, to see my nieces trembling at the sight of this fiasco made me realize that I couldn't keep them. I couldn't have their parents threatening them because of me, and so, I lost my little jewels. I lost my diamonds.

After months of working with various agencies, my brother was able to get all the children back on a probationary basis, the girls are still being visited.

Tomorrow, the death of an uncle - I promise :)

O Brother, Where Art Thou?

I'm still searching for "normal" people. Still searching for what I know exists, but have never experienced. I guess it's because I'm afraid - afraid that I will never have peace, afraid that I will never be fully accepted, afraid that my life will go by without me being able to live a life I’ve dreamed of since I was a child. That dream was where I escaped to during some of the most traumatic times I've experienced, and I had company. My brothers. My first loves, the ones I cared for, cooked for, told stories too, disciplined, the brothers I fought for. And no, they too, are not normal.

Two years ago, I was in between jobs, at home with my husband. It was a beautiful July day and we were goofing off. My phone rang. . .my phone rang, I thought it might be a recruiter so I interrupted my day of nothingness. I thought it might be a job. It was almost 2pm, and my phone was ringing. When I picked up, I was confused. It was a doctor, and he was saying that my brother was in the hospital. He had a motorcycle accident and it was serious. My breathe was gone. I felt light-headed, I felt nauseous, I felt scared, I felt nervous, I felt anxious, I felt WRONG - like I was in bizzaro land. I admit, this tragedy is truly owned by my brother, but it felt like mine too.

My husband and I took a cab to the hospital. We held hands on the way, I was struggling to breathe, and I was struggling to live. Things were passing by so slowly in my mind - we weren't moving fast enough, but inside, thoughts were flying like a barrage of arrows. I couldn’t keep track of them. What did I say the last time I saw him, what did we do, why don't I tell him really and sincerely how much I love him, why am I so superficial?

When we arrived we raced to the 2nd floor, the ICU, the place where many die. When I first saw my brother I was outside of the "containment unit" and could see wires and tubes and wraps and machines and bags of fluid - and I could see that he wasn't awake. I couldn't go in, I didn't know if he could hear, but I didn't want him to hear me crying like some giant baby. It took me a few minutes to compose myself.

Stepping inside of the room, with its transparent folding glass front wall, I felt exposed. Exposed to grief and pain. No doctor explained to me the injuries he suffered at that point, but it was as though my foot had been crushed and rubbed out like an eraser on the head of a pencil. It was as though my spleen had burst, my ribs broken, my femur splintered, my arm cracked, my unconsciousness. and i was terrified. and i prayed.

My mother entered the room with me, I could barely see her through my watery veil, I could barely speak through the emotions in my heart flowing up through my chest choking off the words. But I watched, I watched as she gently stroked his head and called his name, and the miracle was - he opened his eyes.

The doctors had a conference with us a few minutes later detailing his injuries. They were particularly concerned with his foot. It had been stuck under the motorcycle and dragged along the asphalt. There was a great deal of flesh missing and crushed bones. They wanted to try to rebuild it, but they would not promise that he would be able to walk again. They explained that he had been in the hospital since the early morning hours and it had taken them a while to get into his blackberry and call us. All I could think was - he's been here all alone. My heart had nowhere else to sink - it hit bottom.

We came up with a loose schedule of people who would stay with him over night. I stayed the first few nights, we had him moved to a room with a view of the river. His second night in the hospital we watched together and alone the 4th of July fireworks. Their reflections dancing on the water, so prettily, while inside we stared. I held his hand, I spoke to him, though he couldn't say much in return. I sensed that he was frightened, when he slept he had nightmares - he would try to scream. My vigil was sleepless. I wanted to remember everything and I wanted to be awake when he said my name.

Every day there was a new surgery. Screws and rods to place, a foot to re-build. Every day there were medications to administer, fevers and infection to stomp out, blood to be drawn. He was getting stronger though, and I was there helping him when he made his first attempt to stand up. Supporting his weight firmly, and securely. Watching his diminished frame straighten into an upright position. Most days, while he was sleeping I watched him and thought how gaunt he looked, I thought, "where did that spark go?", that spark that made my brother who he was.

When he was awake he smiled, he asked us not to cry, he tried to laugh and make jokes with us. It was an exercise in strength of spirit for him.

Sometimes my husband and I pulled the night shift together, particularly when my brother was transferred to the step-down unit. But as the weeks went by I needed to be home more, to prepare for interviews. He asked for me, I felt so guilty - after a few months, my husband had spent more time with my brother than me, and that hurt. I started visiting during the day, watching the small progressions back to health. Thanking God for the things we take for granted every day, thanking Him for allowing my brother to regain the use of his body.

Soon he moved to physical therapy, surgeons had transferred stomach muscle to his foot to try to rebuild it and he could start to walk on it again. There would be revision surgeries to correct the look and function; at the time the transplanted muscle almost looked like a grapefruit attached to the side and top of his foot, but he kept going, he kept fighting for mobility, and today, fully clothed, no one would ever know he was in an accident. No one would ever know that he nearly lost his life.

Tomorrow, the death of an uncle. . .

Recipe for a Baby. . .

Here I am again, keeping my word. Making sure you get your daily dose of tragedy - your daily dose of abnormality. Why do I keep thinking, "It's normal to eat peanut butter."? Maybe because it's my baseline, maybe because it's the thing that reminds me of ALL normality. It's like having a family - that is definitely something normal. It's the baseline for the American dream. It's the main ingredient in the recipe of life, is it not?

Last year, my husband and I wanted to try our hands at creating a life. Sure, we had tried before, but something wasn't working. Something didn't catch. We decided, no, I decided, to march straight down to the fertility center. I went to the best, I like going to the best when I can. After 2 meetings and an x-ray, I decided the best was too slow, dragging his feet in fact, and I wanted a baby when I wanted a baby - like with everything - I want it when I want it or not at all. So the second best it was. They had a plan, they had a schedule, and everyday something was happening to get me a step closer to the baby I so desired for $15,000 plus the cost of medicine - none of which was covered by my insurance at the time.

And so we began. The first bit of news was the fibroids, one was quite large, sitting on top of my uterus like humpty-dumpty, an evil infertility causing humpty-dumpty, but still we charged on. Hormone shots every day - a cocktail of man-made medicines and human pregnancy hormones derived from the pee of women somewhere. . .

Every morning for a week or two I had 7:00 am ultra-sounds and blood tests. My arms looked like those of a ten year heroine junkie and my veins are thin, so they began collapsing. I didn't care - the pain of the ultra-sounds and shots and blood drawings. I didn't mind these things. I was willing to go as far as I needed to without risking my uterus and my chance to give birth. I was eating healthier, exercising relentlessly and going beyond my usual regimen, and taking vitamins I would have otherwise never had.

Finally, the day of the egg retrieval. It was a surgery, and I had to go under. My husband waited outside while 4 eggs were removed from my body. 4 potential little ones. 4. I went away satisfied. Happy that I could produce eggs and looking forward to them growing with the assist from my husband's semen sample.

7. 7 days later we had 4 well developed zygotes ready for transfer. We transferred 3 eggs that day. I knew, as soon as they went in that one, if not all would take. It was a maternal instinct. It felt awesome! Like I was the god of my own little internal world. Everything was like some pleasant dream. I worked, I loved, and I grew babies. For many weeks I watched as my belly grew. Then that instinct kicked in again. I began telling my husband I didn't feel them growing any more. My new obgyn was scheduled to see me in a few weeks. It was a waiting game. It was a torture.

I sat waiting in the obgyn's office with my mother and husband. My husband and I went into the examination room and we were still excited. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe a woman doesn't get that maternal instinct until AFTER the baby is born. How would I know? I had never been pregnant before. The doctor came in, joking, smiling, laughing - and then the ultrasound. I held my breath. I had been carrying 1, 1 dead baby inside me for about 2 weeks. To reiterate his point the doctor shook the ultrasound device inside me to show me how my baby was floating around freely. He said I would miscarry in the next few days. He was still smiling, still joking as my heart was breaking. As I faced one of my most exquisite personal disasters, this man smiled and laughed. I walked out and told my mother the news. We went downstairs, and walked out into the street - it was a beautiful day, the sunlight warmed my face, and I looked up into the sky and burst into tears. I cried hard for about ten minutes in front of hundreds of passerby’s. I nearly collapsed. But I knew, I knew. . . I was a failure. I couldn't do what millions could do, I was embarrassed, and I was ashamed.

I went home and laid down, crying as my husband tried to console me - but I was inconsolable. I told the baby, "It's okay, you can go now." and I relaxed my body. That's when the blood started coming. Then the cramping. There was blood everywhere for 2 days and the pain was tremendous. I travelled between the hot water in the tub and my rumpled bed. Pacing and crying and doubling over waiting for the end. On the second day, finally it passed and I caught it in a little plastic bowl and put it in the refrigerator. I was ill prepared for this. I didn't know what to do. I was in a place I had never been before. I was experiencing something I had no information on. No one ever talked to me about what was supposed to happen during a miscarriage or what I should do. I was lost emotionally and physically.

2 days later I returned to work, still bleeding and still in pain. I explained to my boss what happened through a river of tears and blubbering and he immediately sent me home. I called my fertility doctor and a friend, they both suggested I go to the emergency room - I could have "products of conception" still inside me which would make me very sick. I went and was treated. The pain was tremendous, even after morphine. I went home. My recipe for a baby was disaster - it was as though it were a planned miscarriage. . .

We buried our baby in a park, with flower seeds, and it was exquisitely beautiful.

(see yesterday's blog to read what happened next)

Tomorrow: A brother's near death experience

Normal to EatPB

"What's normal anyway?", I hate those people. Those people who ARE normal that question what normal IS. We all know what normal is. We learn what normal is, and I don't mean from tv, or movies, but from life. We know for instance, that it's normal to eat pb (peanut butter), which are my initials by the way, eatpb, and they are decidedly not normal.

 

Normal people have MAYBE 3 big crises a lifetime, I have one every year just about, and I am in my 30's. So if you are not normal, like I am not normal, we can talk. I'll work my way backwards through the sands of time and we can dissect my abnormality together. Would you like that? One a day for my 30 plus years of existence :) (and yes, I know it's abnormal to like the stupid smilie face at my age)

 

Today, today we will talk about me resigning from my job forcibly.

 

Pain was all I knew for almost 4 months. Sharp pain, dull pain, surprising pain, tearful pain, the pain one feels when your intestines are fused to your uterus from an infection you contracted after a miscarriage. I wonder how common that is? The pain one feels when her fibroids are degenerating due to a pregnancy that didn't "take". Finally, corrective surgery has put me make on the path to recovery hopefully, and my return to work was greeted with a "You will need to resign by the 31st of January."

 

Why, because of the short-term disability company who is missing paperwork. I said, "But I had surgery, clearly there was a problem.", but no one cares. There is a bottom line to be met. Meanwhile, my fragile recently established career is over.

I was a secretary when I began, an NYU premed dropout working at a small non-for profit. Then I went to swim with sharks at a large financial company. I was with the biggest and the best, and although I felt a sense of pride, I knew I wanted to be more than a secretary. I wanted that prestige that came along with being a "big shot", and the money would have been nice too :)

I went back to school and got my business degree working 50 hour work weeks and going to school nights and weekends. . . I graduated with a gpa of 3.98 from a private college. I felt like I could do anything! But I struggled to break out of the pigeon hole of being a secretary. it took me years to start consulting as a project manager, and then years later to finally have a home as an AVP in Finance.

 

I worked hard, paying my dues included tolerating being smacked on the bottom, watching silently as clients were taken to strip clubs and indulged in illegal drug use with co-workers and superiors, and allowing others to take credit for my work. I didn't care about those things, I just wanted to get to where I was going. I needed this for me, for my family. . .

 

I make more than any of my family members, and have always been the financial backbone. I have given and loaned about as much as I've kept for myself. I don't own a home, I no longer own a car, and soon I will once again be on the prowl for a job - my career stalled, my body healing, my marriage failing, my baby dead. . .

 

There is so much more to this, but we are just getting to know eachother ;)

 

In this economy, losing one's job is quite common, I'll admit, but may I remind you - A tragedy for every year. It will be worth the mundane to stick around for some of the more juicer tidbits, I promise.

 

Tomorrow, a planned miscarriage. . .