I’m not going to apologize for the lack of posting, structure, or general theme to my recent updates. Those of you who understand morning sickness, all day, for sixteen weeks, are impressed that my current children are still alive. Forget about this silly blog, which needs no food. But to those of you who echo the sentiments of my baby sister (at dinner a few weeks ago), sounding something like this: “You know I can’t even remember the last time I had the flu. I just can’t imagine, or even remember really, what you must feel like. And since I never really get sick, I honestly don’t think I’ll have a rough pregnancy,” I would like to paint a word-picture that the migraine prevented me from creating that night when I politely agreed that your pregnancies would probably be easy, and silently prayed for the ability to projectile puke all over you across the table at that very moment.
Archive for the ‘Sick’ Category
**WARNING: This post alludes to the subject of poop. Stop eating or stop reading.**
I’m not very good at keeping up with old wives tales or superstitions or whatever. But I feel like somebody is out to get me.
Can I just say for the record, that if punishment is necessary, pregnancy is absolutely enough. God didn’t condemn Eve with this affliction in the Garden for nothing.
I think I can safely say that this is the first year in, perhaps my entire life, that I’ve looked forward to, and then celebrated, setting my clocks an hour ahead. This is most likely due to the fact that, in North Carolina anyway, the average temperature for the past eight weeks has been around 61 degrees. In anticipation of high nineties, mosquitoes, and likely a drought, come July, I have been trying to make the most of our outdoor time while it is ripe.
Unfortunately, I am not currently a morning person.
Combine the weather with a few other timely circumstances and what I’ve discovered is the 5-step recipe to preparation for, and a quick recovery from Springing Forward. I will share the following, which is probably advice I should have shared a few months ago. Always next year…
So I’m not really sure how to begin this post. I’m finding myself typing and erasing, and typing, and erasing, and sitting here staring into a very bright afternoon, and wishing my mother would call me back, and suddenly feeling very, very thirsty.
Brace yourself for a whole bunch of emotional drivel, intertwined with an inordinate amount of social networking references.
On Saturday morning, I found out my 7th grade English teacher had been prompted by–the now Undertoad infamous–Miss Gotzian, to check out this blog. And he did. And then he followed me on Twitter. So I followed him back. One of his tweets prompted me to his Goodreads page, and out of sheer curiosity for just how many books they guy really has read, I requested his friendship there, as well.
Fast forward to Monday night, when I posted my plan to start waking up earlier, as an effort in discipline and focused self-control (over sleep, of all the embarrassing addictions).
At about 3am, I awoke with a nausea so powerful, that though it did not get me out of bed to throw up, it did cause me to dream of throwing up for the next four hours. May I also submit without evidence that this nausea was accompanied by an immediate fever.
And to top it off, Carter was up at 6:30 yesterday morning, doing that thing kids do when they are awake but mom is not. Hovering. At my side of the bed. Just breathing and looking at me.
Apparently Satan, or one of his minions, follows my blog. (Somebody mark that down in my WordPress Milestone stats!)
By the time I realized I was in the throws of a full blown stomach virus, John was already blissfully ignoring all phone calls in court. I texted him to simply say: “I’m having dry heaves diarrhea, and a full-body migraine. I think I can make it until nap-time. I’ll keep you posted.”
The rest of the day is a blur. I went from sleeping on the couch to sleeping in my bed, and I remember telling Eliott to help Carter wipe and not to open the door if anyone rings the doorbell. More than once, I woke up to her singing the “Clean Up” song, which means she was taking her role as substitute Mom more seriously than I would have expected. Carter just kept waking me up to tell me she was hungry. I know she was not hungry, but I think in her two-year old brain, this was the only thing that might get me out of bed. I’m fairly certain, if it came to it, they could have lived off dry Rice Chex and peanut butter (the two things in the pantry they recognize and can reach).
Needless to say, I didn’t get on the computer at all.
So today, as I weaned myself back into the real world with the BRAT diet, and attempted to re-hydrate, you can imagine my surprise to find a message from the aforementioned 7th grade English teacher, in my Goodreads inbox.
It was written on Monday night, apologizing for the bizarre connection, thanking me for the shout out’s to Ender’s Game and Les Mis, and informing me that Miss G had passed away, suddenly, late last week.
So here I sit, all medicine-heady, and already empty, just stunned.
I immediately went to her Facebook page, which, of course has turned in to an Internet memorial site. Scrolling through the notes and memories, I find myself crying when I see a name I recognize, crying more when the sentiment is exactly something I could have said myself.
The woman was loved.
I actually saw Miss G last summer, the weekend of my sister’s wedding in Spokane. Of all the people I could have seen from my hometown, the one and only person I blocked out any time for was her. She drove out to my hotel and spent the better part of an afternoon talking and laughing and catching up. We hugged a teary goodbye and said we need to do this more often. (“Next time–and every time–I’m back in Spokane, I promise.”)
I sort of hate, now, that the blog post which has turned in to my personal memorial, must also share space with a diarrhea story, but I’m not going back to edit. And not because, “This is what Miss G would have wanted,” (honestly, I don’t think she would have cared) but because I have no reason to remember this moment any differently than the way it happened.
I think I can say with complete honesty that Miss G is the first person of real significance in my life, to die. Does that make me sheltered, or lucky, or what? The geographical distance between us for the last decade has been such that I’m not going to walk around in some sort of a cloud of mourning for the next several days or weeks, as I’m sure many are, in her absence. But I am in a bit of a fog, nonetheless.
People always talk about leaving a legacy. I think it’s pretty clear, that she is one woman who did just that. I only hope that one day, after I’m gone, someone has similar memories of my awesomeness, as I, and so many others, have of hers.
At the end of every day in 5th grade, we stood up, put our chairs up, and with backpacks on, recited this poem together, aloud, as a class. I couldn’t actually find it, even when I searched the all powerful Oz (Google) using entire phrases, so what I’ve written is only what I can remember. There are a few gaps. Come on, it’s been 25 years. But somehow, it feels appropriate.
Appropriate that I can remember in such detail, so many things about 5th grade. Appropriate, that my mom and I were just discussing that Miss Gotzian could not possibly have been in her 50s, she looked way too good to be 50. Appropriate that so much of what I’ve said and done in front of this woman has been so inappropriate, and yet she managed to handle me and my 5th grade idiot self, with grace and a really loud laugh.
And appropriate, that almost a year ago exactly, I reconnected with her through my April Fool’s Day Confession, on this blog, and we’ve been in the most close contact of our relationship since that day.
Jill Gotzian, you are loved.
The light that shines for you
The heart that beats for all,
You bring no need to great
You have no hurt to small.
Step now into the Light,
That in this holy place
Shines through the soul’s dark night
And feels prayer’s warm embrace.
Friend, you are not alone,
Look to the light of prayer
Love’s truth come shining plain,
That God is always there.
In Memory. Jill Gotzian, January 24, 1959 – March 1, 2012.
Is it a peak allergy season in North Carolina right now? I ask because I honestly don’t know. Two nights ago, while sitting at the bar of 6th and Vine splitting date night between my husband and my girlfriend Molly, I started to feel a tickle in my throat.
As I outlined in my last post, I don’t knock on wood for good health, and I’m telling you right now, pregnancy cured a disease in me. No. I’m totally serious. From the time I was very young (it started in Mississippi, which was second and third grades) I have suffered from what I would consider severe asthma, and not the kind doctor’s call “sports induced.” In Mississippi, I was allergic to everything, and could count on getting sick for at least two full weeks of every year, once in the Fall and once in the Spring. In fact, I spent my second grade Spring Break, the entire week, in the ICU, hooked up to IV’s and breathing machines. I remember very little of it, outside of my dad sneaking in popcorn and Pepsi for the night shift, and watching Johnny Carson with me on a television that resembled a green microwave with a screen that was slightly bigger than an iPhone.
When we moved to Washington State, my parents starting taking me to an actual allergist, where I began a long relationship with allergy shots. I have to admit, getting tested for allergy shots was actually one of my favorite parts of childhood. Twice they did it on my back, and it was a little like a Chinese torture/pleasure experience. Twice they did it on my arms, and again, the needle pricks relaxed me into a state of malaise, which was immediately interrupted by instantaneous itching, and the fight not to scratch. Sadistic? A little.
In high school, I missed our Fall retreat every year because I was sick. My senior year, I prepared in advance, got on a steroid the week before and even brought my breathing machine (also about the size of a small microwave) with me. My dad now admits to driving 120 miles an hour in my mother’s Volvo to pick me up in the middle of the night and take me to the emergency room. He didn’t get pulled over, but he was pretty sure he could have convinced any cop of the emergency and talked himself out of the ticket. (My attorney husband is rolling his eyes right now.)
I have been on four different oral medications throughout my life, and whenever I so much as had a sniffle or a scratch in my throat, my parents rushed me to the Minute Clinic to get antibiotics and a steroid. In college, I bought Z-Packs on the black market, in order to be ready for the inevitable final’s week sickness. I have always relied on a rescue inhaler, which is probably why, for most of my life, I was a weak athlete and hated running, even though my body would have suggested otherwise.
And people wonder why I never had a boyfriend.
Asthma is a wimpy kid disease, and not the kind you want to admit you suffer from.
When I got pregnant with Eliott, everything changed. I had to go off Allegra-D, because it is on the “we don’t know if this messes with a fetus so avoid using it” list. But aside from my weekly and progressive allergy to- said fetus, I was otherwise in the best health of my life. I mean, yes, I lost 7lbs in the first trimester due to all-day morning sickness that had me constantly feeling like the room was spinning. Yes, I was mildly addicted to Tums Smoothies from month four until delievery. And yes, I did break out in all-over hives for the last six weeks of pregnancy, causing 3 a.m. scalding hot baths in oatmeal or Aveeno, just so I could go back to bed. (They call it PUPS?) But I never had to use my inhaler.
And I haven’t really ever had to use it since.
And I no longer take allergy meds. At all.
And I ran my 2nd marathon when Eliott was 8 months old.
So, today, I awoke with gunk in the back of my throat and that foggy headache that is clearly not just a caffeine withdrawal. And I’m wondering, is it allergy season in North Carolina? We’re flying to Michigan in two days to stay on John’s farm. I have an inclination to bring along my breathing machine (which is now roughly the size of my iPhone), but I’m not even sure if I have any medication to put in it.