In Spanish, it means "I miss you".
And I do.
I know the odds are a million to one that you'll see this.
But sometimes it makes me feel better to imagine that you will...
So I just wanted to tell you that I miss you. So much.
M said she saw you. That you looked grown up.
She told you I said "hi" (even though I never asked her to - she knew I would've wanted to tell you hi.)
You said "hi back", and that you loved me, and to give me your kisses.
When M told me I cried. Not because I missed you, although there are plenty of times I cry for that...
Because you loved me.
Still.
And if you love me, you must know I love you.
I miss you, princess. Especially right now. Especially at Christmas.
And I love you so much.
Hasta te veo, mija.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Friday, November 15, 2013
Auto Manufacturers Must Not Have Kids
This is the conclusion I have come to this week.
Why?
Well... remember riding in, say, your grandma's car in the 1990's? And how she didn't have a nifty button to push to roll the windows down, you had to use that horrible crank thing? Yeah, that was no fun, right? Worse, if you've ever had the misfortune of driving your grandma's car, and happened to want fast food, or cold beer (whichever is your choice intoxicant), you know those things require MEGA muscles! And if the person in front of you at the drive thru is smoking in their car and you want to roll the window up whenever its being down is not vital to your mission, it's doubly rotten.
Boy, it sure is a good thing they developed those nice little switches that make the windows go up and down BY THEMSELVES! No longer will we have tired arms at every drive thru, no longer will you bump a window crank getting something heavy out of the car, no, now there's a BUTTON! And better yet, in the driver's door, there's a button that LOCKS all the other windows, so your kids CAN'T even play with them! One of the best features, by far, about Clyde, the 1990 Honda Accord I inherited (funny enough, it did used to be my grandma's car) when I was sixteen, was those automatic windows... which honestly I didn't even expect in a car that old.
Surely, when I bought a NEW car... when I was lucky enough to get my hands on a 2010 vehicle IN 2011... it would have the same ingenious invention...
But wait...
...........
....................................
......................................................................
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
NOT THE CRANK WINDOWS!!!!
So at first I was like... "Eh, okay. I got this. I'm a big girl, strong arm muscles from carrying babies. I can do this."
Then I was like "Man, this is really irritating when the guy in front of me at McDonald's is smoking... but oh well, more exercise."
Then I met Ophlf, who you may remember from a previous post. Despite being "completely fictional"... Ophlf picked up RIGHT AWAY on those crank windows and what they meant.
The first time I was driving down the highway before I heard the faint whistling sound from the back seat. 'What is that?!' I thought. 'Was one of those creepy abandoned places I visited *actually* haunted, and the ghost decided to hitch a ride??' I glance in the back seat. Nope. Crank is suspciously out of place. Hmm. Maybe I bumped it. Surely Ophlf couldn't have figured that out AND reached it from his 5 point harness car seat!
The second time I was barely down the street because the window was WAY open and I was catching an icy breeze. Stop to close it. Notice that it's open just enough that, if he could reach the handle, Ophlf couldn't possibly have pushed it any further. Hmm. Maybe it's not the ghost.
Then a couple days ago... Ophlf did not want to get into the car. No, that's an understatement. Getting Ophlf in the car was like getting a cat into a bathtub full of water. Finally wrestling the little goober into his car seat, restraining his upper body at very least, Ophlf commenced kicking. Kicking everything in reach of his (long!) legs. I sat and observed. My first assumption had been right. Ophlf could not reach the window crank... with his hands... but the feet... right to the window crank.
The normal warning him not to do it again, applying consequences, etc, was completely ineffective. Ophlf was hell-bent on rolling that window down as far as he could. Usually when I wasn't looking, so that later, when I was driving alone and could not easily stop and roll the window back up (which requires a yoga-like reach into the back seat, because car manufacturers are dumb), I was stuck with a whistling and/or cold gap in my car's keep-the-outside-out-and-the-inside-in armor.
THIS DRIVES ME CRAZY.
I'll illustrate, because I feel like it, and so you can see how hilariously bad I am at MS paint.
Yeah. So here I am thinking I'm safe with a nice new car, and THEY'VE PUT THOSE INFURIATING CRANK WINDOWS ON IT! Combined with Ophlf, I'm doomed to an eternity of bad hair days and frantically fleeing said window. WHY, car manufacturers, WHY would you do this??
And then it dawns on me. They must not have children. To someone with no children, a crank window is merely a mild inconvenience. To someone with children, crank windows can be irritating. To someone driving around a child like Ophlf, these sort of windows MAKE YOU WANT TO GO EVEN MORE INSANE THAN YOU ALREADY ARE!
Ever determined, as I am, I was going to put an end to this window problem. I scoured the internet for some sort of device to child proof this type of window - because if they were still making cars with that feature, some smart parent had come up with a device to child-proof them.
Nope.
Nada.
Nothing.
The best I could come up with was a bunch of guys with beards explaining how to remove the window crank.
'That could work...' I thought. I didn't want to have to remove it, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
One video featured a fancy little tool, which the bearded man (I assume he has a beard, I'm not sure I ever actually saw his face, that's just how I picture him) assured you could be made at home or bought at a store. This almost made me laugh audibly. Broke as I am, and mechanically inept, there would be no tool for me... regardless of how seamlessly easy it made the process look. Take a look for yourself:
Lacking the fancy tool, I looked for another method. And I found one, a method using things I already had! This website advertised that all you needed was a flathead screwdriver and a rag!
I set to work immediately, even enlisting the help of best friend, best friend's roommate, and best friend's ex husband (don't ask). Not a one of us could get the stupid thing off with a rag. All we learned is how to break the window crank... which was not exactly what I was going for. Ophlf could've (and probably would've eventually) done that himself!
Ever determined, I showed the tool video to my brother, who, though he doesn't get enough respect from me (well, I'm his older sister, what do you expect?) is actually kind of a whiz with tools and various other science stuff.
He made me the tool.
I'll wait while you go back and read that sentence again.
HE MADE ME THE TOOL!
Not only that, he went out to my car in the freezing cold, and, though scraping up the door panel a little bit (although our previous attempts had done quite a bit of that, so it's hard to tell what's what), GOT THE STUPID THING OFF!
I almost hugged him.
Now the door panel by Ophlf's car seat looks like this instead:
HAH! Take THAT, three-year-old!
And now, despite the fact that *I* didn't actually do anything other than look up a video and tear a rag up, I'm feeling incredibly accomplished. The nap time saga may still rage on, but I WIN the crank window battle.
I think I deserve chocolate.
Why?
Well... remember riding in, say, your grandma's car in the 1990's? And how she didn't have a nifty button to push to roll the windows down, you had to use that horrible crank thing? Yeah, that was no fun, right? Worse, if you've ever had the misfortune of driving your grandma's car, and happened to want fast food, or cold beer (whichever is your choice intoxicant), you know those things require MEGA muscles! And if the person in front of you at the drive thru is smoking in their car and you want to roll the window up whenever its being down is not vital to your mission, it's doubly rotten.
Boy, it sure is a good thing they developed those nice little switches that make the windows go up and down BY THEMSELVES! No longer will we have tired arms at every drive thru, no longer will you bump a window crank getting something heavy out of the car, no, now there's a BUTTON! And better yet, in the driver's door, there's a button that LOCKS all the other windows, so your kids CAN'T even play with them! One of the best features, by far, about Clyde, the 1990 Honda Accord I inherited (funny enough, it did used to be my grandma's car) when I was sixteen, was those automatic windows... which honestly I didn't even expect in a car that old.
Surely, when I bought a NEW car... when I was lucky enough to get my hands on a 2010 vehicle IN 2011... it would have the same ingenious invention...
But wait...
...........
....................................
......................................................................
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
NOT THE CRANK WINDOWS!!!!
So at first I was like... "Eh, okay. I got this. I'm a big girl, strong arm muscles from carrying babies. I can do this."
Then I was like "Man, this is really irritating when the guy in front of me at McDonald's is smoking... but oh well, more exercise."
Then I met Ophlf, who you may remember from a previous post. Despite being "completely fictional"... Ophlf picked up RIGHT AWAY on those crank windows and what they meant.
The first time I was driving down the highway before I heard the faint whistling sound from the back seat. 'What is that?!' I thought. 'Was one of those creepy abandoned places I visited *actually* haunted, and the ghost decided to hitch a ride??' I glance in the back seat. Nope. Crank is suspciously out of place. Hmm. Maybe I bumped it. Surely Ophlf couldn't have figured that out AND reached it from his 5 point harness car seat!
The second time I was barely down the street because the window was WAY open and I was catching an icy breeze. Stop to close it. Notice that it's open just enough that, if he could reach the handle, Ophlf couldn't possibly have pushed it any further. Hmm. Maybe it's not the ghost.
Then a couple days ago... Ophlf did not want to get into the car. No, that's an understatement. Getting Ophlf in the car was like getting a cat into a bathtub full of water. Finally wrestling the little goober into his car seat, restraining his upper body at very least, Ophlf commenced kicking. Kicking everything in reach of his (long!) legs. I sat and observed. My first assumption had been right. Ophlf could not reach the window crank... with his hands... but the feet... right to the window crank.
The normal warning him not to do it again, applying consequences, etc, was completely ineffective. Ophlf was hell-bent on rolling that window down as far as he could. Usually when I wasn't looking, so that later, when I was driving alone and could not easily stop and roll the window back up (which requires a yoga-like reach into the back seat, because car manufacturers are dumb), I was stuck with a whistling and/or cold gap in my car's keep-the-outside-out-and-the-inside-in armor.
THIS DRIVES ME CRAZY.
I'll illustrate, because I feel like it, and so you can see how hilariously bad I am at MS paint.
Yeah. So here I am thinking I'm safe with a nice new car, and THEY'VE PUT THOSE INFURIATING CRANK WINDOWS ON IT! Combined with Ophlf, I'm doomed to an eternity of bad hair days and frantically fleeing said window. WHY, car manufacturers, WHY would you do this??
And then it dawns on me. They must not have children. To someone with no children, a crank window is merely a mild inconvenience. To someone with children, crank windows can be irritating. To someone driving around a child like Ophlf, these sort of windows MAKE YOU WANT TO GO EVEN MORE INSANE THAN YOU ALREADY ARE!
Ever determined, as I am, I was going to put an end to this window problem. I scoured the internet for some sort of device to child proof this type of window - because if they were still making cars with that feature, some smart parent had come up with a device to child-proof them.
Nope.
Nada.
Nothing.
The best I could come up with was a bunch of guys with beards explaining how to remove the window crank.
'That could work...' I thought. I didn't want to have to remove it, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
One video featured a fancy little tool, which the bearded man (I assume he has a beard, I'm not sure I ever actually saw his face, that's just how I picture him) assured you could be made at home or bought at a store. This almost made me laugh audibly. Broke as I am, and mechanically inept, there would be no tool for me... regardless of how seamlessly easy it made the process look. Take a look for yourself:
Lacking the fancy tool, I looked for another method. And I found one, a method using things I already had! This website advertised that all you needed was a flathead screwdriver and a rag!
I set to work immediately, even enlisting the help of best friend, best friend's roommate, and best friend's ex husband (don't ask). Not a one of us could get the stupid thing off with a rag. All we learned is how to break the window crank... which was not exactly what I was going for. Ophlf could've (and probably would've eventually) done that himself!
Ever determined, I showed the tool video to my brother, who, though he doesn't get enough respect from me (well, I'm his older sister, what do you expect?) is actually kind of a whiz with tools and various other science stuff.
He made me the tool.
I'll wait while you go back and read that sentence again.
HE MADE ME THE TOOL!
Not only that, he went out to my car in the freezing cold, and, though scraping up the door panel a little bit (although our previous attempts had done quite a bit of that, so it's hard to tell what's what), GOT THE STUPID THING OFF!
I almost hugged him.
Now the door panel by Ophlf's car seat looks like this instead:
HAH! Take THAT, three-year-old!
And now, despite the fact that *I* didn't actually do anything other than look up a video and tear a rag up, I'm feeling incredibly accomplished. The nap time saga may still rage on, but I WIN the crank window battle.
I think I deserve chocolate.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
The Three-Year-Old Napping Saga
This is not funny. Like I promised. It's actually quite soul deadening.
12:30 - Ophlf goes potty. This is starting to sound like a children's board book.
12:45 - Ophlf is put in his bed, read a story, and tucked in with all four of his stuffed animals. If the previous day's events are repeated, Ophlf will fall asleep right away and sleep for hours. "Wow," you're probably thinking, "that doesn't sound like the sort of thing that happens in the Vortex!" But you're wrong, because it does. Why? Because little Ophlf likes to keep us guessing. Some days, you gear up in your battle armor only to find out that the opposing army only wants tea and crumpets. Other days, you set aside the armor and let your noble steed go for a romp in the field, and the army sneak-attacks you because you got complacent. They're not a nice army.
12:50 - Ophlf is singing. OK, that's cute enough, little Ophlf is singing himself to sleep!
12:55 - Ophlf has confused singing with yelling. Unpleasant.
1:15 - Still yelling. You ignore the yelling in hopes that Ophlf will tire himself out and fall asleep.
1:20 - Ophlf has now started doing amateur gymnastics on his bed. You again resist the urge to go up there, because it usually only makes things worse. That is how three-year-olds work. They are extremely counterintuitive.
1:35 - Ophlf has turned his light on and is now cheesing for the video monitor in his room, while making loud, sudden noises that frighten any animals within a six mile radius. Time to go up there. *You do.* Ophlf looks jubilant that his attempts at getting you back in his room have finally succeeded. You mentally start pricing how much gasoline it would take to soak your own body. As you go back downstairs, with the light off and one teddy bear gone, Ophlf is cheerily fake-snoring while huddled in some sort of weird yoga-ish bear-type pose. You tell yourself that you are not going back up there for at least another 15 minutes.
1:45 - Waving a teddy bear in front of the monitor, kicking the bedrail away from his mattress, all in the midst of jubilant screeches. Has it been 15 minutes yet?
1:50 - Steadfastly refusing to speak to him and give any sort of reward for the behavior, you return to Ophlf's room. It reeks. Oh, the old poop-during-naptime trick... you know it all too well. You complete the disgusting job without so much as a word, then return him to his bed. Another teddy bear gone.
2:00 - Bedrail overturned, Ophlf on top. Pointy metal things sticking up in the air just waiting for an amateur gymnast to fall on them. Go back up there. Another bear.
2:15 - Well, it's not his bed, but Ophlf is actually lying still... on the floor where he kicked the bed rail away. You opt for as little intervention as possible and stay away.
2:30 - Check the monitor. No Ophlf. Thumping continues. This can't be good. Go up there. There he is. Right under the video monitor, repeatedly throwing a book and his last teddy bear against the wall. Book and bear gone, you just barely manage to hold your temper. When you try to put Ophlf back in bed with his blanket, he kicks it off and begins to whine and cry. Despite whining and crying usually being negative things to see in a child, you feel just a little bit accomplished. Maybe you are finally making an impression on little Ophlf. This time, when you go back downstairs, you steadfastly refuse to look at the monitor or return to the room. For the safety and sanity of all.
2:50 - Thumping continues. Refuse to care. Start wondering where the matches are. Will one match do it? If not, will you, minorly burned, be able to light another in order to ensure a good long time in the burn unit? Should you stuff your pockets with dryer lint to fuel the ignition further?
2:55 - Ophlf is standing at the gate on his bedroom door (you can hear him). Shouting for anyone/everyone he knows. Deep down, you know that the nap battle will be lost today. You wonder if your Giant Eagle Fuel Perks can be used on gasoline meant for self-dousing.
3:15 - Check the video monitor. It's been too quiet. There's little Ophlf, emptying out his carefully folded clothes from the dresser drawers onto the floor. Resist urge to bang head against wall. Go upstairs, tell Ophlf that he is getting a time out after nap time, and that he will help you pick up the clothes. Close door, because you know this makes an impression on Ophlf. He is not scared, he's just mad that the 'yelling at the gate' option has been removed.
3:30 - Ophlf puts two and two together and realizes he can open the door. You can tell by the (far too audible) gleeful laughter. Go back upstairs and close it. This time, remain outside the door. Commence temper tantrum.
3:45 - Temper tantrum still raging. Realizing that Ophlf has been up there three hours now, and that you should've probably given up an hour ago (but who wants to give up right when they think they might be getting through to the kid?), wait for a lull in the tantrum and then enter the room.
Ophlf wins. No nap today. Thinking about it, you're pretty sure there's a Shell station down the street. Oh well. At least the burn unit will be an improvement over this day.
Upon their third birthday, children seem to enter some sort of anti-nap vortex, wherein even though everyone with half a brain, child included, realizes they NEED a nap, they do everything in their power to resist the evil nap. It's as though turning three also instantly changes all their blankets and teddy bears to monsters to be vanquished through the powers of nap resistance. And all the grown-ups who have unwillingly entered this evil vortex with the child are slowly driven insane.
That's the world I'm living in right now.
Actually, scratch that. I'm in a special anti-nap vortex wherein the grown-ups involved are all QUICKLY driven to a point of such insanity that stabbing their eyes out with an icepick and setting themselves on fire, thus ensuring a long recovery in a burn unit, sounds far more appealing than continuing the Epic Nap Battle.
Don't worry, I'm not in a burn unit. Yet.
It could honestly be any day now. I'm thinking about buying gasoline... and not for my car.
"Why?" you might ask, if in fact you have never visited this particular Vortex of Doom.
Well... let me see if I can illustrate this for you with a friendly timeline. A friendly timeline of a completely fictional day in the life of a completely fictional person who knows a completely fictional three-year-old named... *tries to think of something non-offensive* Hmm. Maybe it should be Biblical. What were Job's kids' names?
I looked it up. One of them was named Ophlf. Which sounds like a sound I might make while on fire. So that's it. Also, this Job dude had a lot of kids. No wonder the guy was tormented... I bet he spent YEARS in the Vortex of Doom.
So, timeline. Here we go. Get ready. It won't be funny, I promise.
12:00 - Ophlf (gosh, that's hard to type) eats lunch. This goes fine.
12:30 - Ophlf goes potty. This is starting to sound like a children's board book.
12:45 - Ophlf is put in his bed, read a story, and tucked in with all four of his stuffed animals. If the previous day's events are repeated, Ophlf will fall asleep right away and sleep for hours. "Wow," you're probably thinking, "that doesn't sound like the sort of thing that happens in the Vortex!" But you're wrong, because it does. Why? Because little Ophlf likes to keep us guessing. Some days, you gear up in your battle armor only to find out that the opposing army only wants tea and crumpets. Other days, you set aside the armor and let your noble steed go for a romp in the field, and the army sneak-attacks you because you got complacent. They're not a nice army.
12:50 - Ophlf is singing. OK, that's cute enough, little Ophlf is singing himself to sleep!
12:55 - Ophlf has confused singing with yelling. Unpleasant.
1:15 - Still yelling. You ignore the yelling in hopes that Ophlf will tire himself out and fall asleep.
1:20 - Ophlf has now started doing amateur gymnastics on his bed. You again resist the urge to go up there, because it usually only makes things worse. That is how three-year-olds work. They are extremely counterintuitive.
1:35 - Ophlf has turned his light on and is now cheesing for the video monitor in his room, while making loud, sudden noises that frighten any animals within a six mile radius. Time to go up there. *You do.* Ophlf looks jubilant that his attempts at getting you back in his room have finally succeeded. You mentally start pricing how much gasoline it would take to soak your own body. As you go back downstairs, with the light off and one teddy bear gone, Ophlf is cheerily fake-snoring while huddled in some sort of weird yoga-ish bear-type pose. You tell yourself that you are not going back up there for at least another 15 minutes.
1:45 - Waving a teddy bear in front of the monitor, kicking the bedrail away from his mattress, all in the midst of jubilant screeches. Has it been 15 minutes yet?
1:50 - Steadfastly refusing to speak to him and give any sort of reward for the behavior, you return to Ophlf's room. It reeks. Oh, the old poop-during-naptime trick... you know it all too well. You complete the disgusting job without so much as a word, then return him to his bed. Another teddy bear gone.
2:00 - Bedrail overturned, Ophlf on top. Pointy metal things sticking up in the air just waiting for an amateur gymnast to fall on them. Go back up there. Another bear.
2:15 - Well, it's not his bed, but Ophlf is actually lying still... on the floor where he kicked the bed rail away. You opt for as little intervention as possible and stay away.
2:30 - Check the monitor. No Ophlf. Thumping continues. This can't be good. Go up there. There he is. Right under the video monitor, repeatedly throwing a book and his last teddy bear against the wall. Book and bear gone, you just barely manage to hold your temper. When you try to put Ophlf back in bed with his blanket, he kicks it off and begins to whine and cry. Despite whining and crying usually being negative things to see in a child, you feel just a little bit accomplished. Maybe you are finally making an impression on little Ophlf. This time, when you go back downstairs, you steadfastly refuse to look at the monitor or return to the room. For the safety and sanity of all.
2:50 - Thumping continues. Refuse to care. Start wondering where the matches are. Will one match do it? If not, will you, minorly burned, be able to light another in order to ensure a good long time in the burn unit? Should you stuff your pockets with dryer lint to fuel the ignition further?
2:55 - Ophlf is standing at the gate on his bedroom door (you can hear him). Shouting for anyone/everyone he knows. Deep down, you know that the nap battle will be lost today. You wonder if your Giant Eagle Fuel Perks can be used on gasoline meant for self-dousing.
3:15 - Check the video monitor. It's been too quiet. There's little Ophlf, emptying out his carefully folded clothes from the dresser drawers onto the floor. Resist urge to bang head against wall. Go upstairs, tell Ophlf that he is getting a time out after nap time, and that he will help you pick up the clothes. Close door, because you know this makes an impression on Ophlf. He is not scared, he's just mad that the 'yelling at the gate' option has been removed.
3:30 - Ophlf puts two and two together and realizes he can open the door. You can tell by the (far too audible) gleeful laughter. Go back upstairs and close it. This time, remain outside the door. Commence temper tantrum.
3:45 - Temper tantrum still raging. Realizing that Ophlf has been up there three hours now, and that you should've probably given up an hour ago (but who wants to give up right when they think they might be getting through to the kid?), wait for a lull in the tantrum and then enter the room.
Ophlf wins. No nap today. Thinking about it, you're pretty sure there's a Shell station down the street. Oh well. At least the burn unit will be an improvement over this day.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Dear Tim Horton's Guy
Dear Tim Horton's Guy,
I don't know your name, because either you don't wear a name badge, or I have never bothered to look at it in the course of our seven year relationship... so you have two choices. Because you look alarmingly like David Boreanaz, you can be "Guy who looks like David Boreanaz" or "Tim Horton's Guy". Since most people don't like being defined by their profession, especially if it involves a drive-thru window, I'm going with "Guy who looks like David Boreanaz". Oh, and a bonus... I'm ridiculously attracted to David Boreanaz and I wish to have his babies... so, yeah, you're welcome.
Anyways. Thank you, David Boreanaz look-alike, for your ever faithful service to me at the Tim Horton's drive-thru window. You have worked there since before I started college, which was, you know, like AGES ago, back when Miley Cyrus was still adorable, and you have never failed to deliver my Timbits with utmost excellence. In fact, the other day, I'm pretty sure I saw you grab just enough Timbits for me out of SOMEONE ELSE'S waiting box... which kind of made my day.
And speaking of making my day, today's exchange was another perfect example. I mean really. Here it is.
You: You're going to turn into a Timbit you know
Me: (Smiling only because you look like David Boreanaz, anyone else could not get away with commenting on my eating habits at the drive thru) ...and french fries, and grilled cheese sandwiches.
You: What?
Me: Those are the other things I eat. Yes, I eat like a five year old, I know.
You: (laughing) That's awesome. You're awesome. Have a great day.
Ahem... I'M AWESOME! Furthermore, by looking like an actor that I'd like to have babies with, you have inadvertently reinforced this notion I have that said actor ALSO realizes my awesomeness and/or knows I exist. So good work, buddy, bet you didn't know you were actually serving Timbits AND a side of reinforcing delusional relationships with actors who don't know I exist!
Now, I have one bone to pick with you, Guy Who Looks Like David Boreanaz... this morning... there was a little bit of JELLY on one of my honey dip Timbits. Now let's get one thing straight here. I don't like jelly. If I did, I would probably order donuts that contained it. Since I do not like it, I choose donuts that do not contain it. Therefore, contaminating one of my precious fried-dough morsels with the sticky substance is a serious offense. I mean, I had to actually get a napkin and wipe it off before I could eat that Timbit. This caused me some deal of anguish.
That all said, I'm going to let it slide, Guy Who Looks Like David Boreanaz. Why, you ask? What makes you deserving of my forgiveness after such a heinous offense? Well, Guy Who Looks Like David Boreanaz, the answer is simple. You look like David Boreanaz. You tell me I'm awesome. Now I feel like David Boreanaz thinks I'm awesome. For that, I'm willing to overlook the offending jelly.
BUT - I do have to warn you, David Boreanaz-look-alike - my forgiveness only goes so far. This jelly-on-non-jelly-containing-donut thing must not be repeated... because sooner or later, I'm going to inadvertantly start resenting you (and possibly also the actual David Boreanaz) for the contamination of my breakfast foods. So, if you'd like our wonderfully fulfilling relationship to continue in the fashion it has for the last seven years, perhaps you should develop some sort of jelly detection system, and then only give contaminated Timbits to other customers who are less awesome than me. Just a suggestion.
In closing, Guy Who Looks Like David Boreanaz, besides the jelly incident this morning, I think you are awesome too. The only way in which you could possibly be more awesome is if you were ACTUALLY David Boreanaz. Then we would make babies. But since that's sadly not the case, just keep up the good work - the more you feed my delusions about my relationship with said actor, the more of your tasty Timbits I'll devour. Wait. Why did that sound sexual? Ugh. Anyways. No more jelly. Reinforce belief that David Boreanaz thinks I'm awesome. Do those two things and we're golden, got it?
But remember my fickle forgiveness... keep up the jelly thing, and I may be forced to go to Jolly Pirate. David Boreanaz does not look at all like a pirate, and you would be unable to sell more of your delicious breakfast to me, which I'm sure gives you great fulfillment... so I don't see that going well for either of us.
Much love, Guy Who Looks Like David Boreanaz.
XOXO,
Katie
I don't know your name, because either you don't wear a name badge, or I have never bothered to look at it in the course of our seven year relationship... so you have two choices. Because you look alarmingly like David Boreanaz, you can be "Guy who looks like David Boreanaz" or "Tim Horton's Guy". Since most people don't like being defined by their profession, especially if it involves a drive-thru window, I'm going with "Guy who looks like David Boreanaz". Oh, and a bonus... I'm ridiculously attracted to David Boreanaz and I wish to have his babies... so, yeah, you're welcome.
Anyways. Thank you, David Boreanaz look-alike, for your ever faithful service to me at the Tim Horton's drive-thru window. You have worked there since before I started college, which was, you know, like AGES ago, back when Miley Cyrus was still adorable, and you have never failed to deliver my Timbits with utmost excellence. In fact, the other day, I'm pretty sure I saw you grab just enough Timbits for me out of SOMEONE ELSE'S waiting box... which kind of made my day.
And speaking of making my day, today's exchange was another perfect example. I mean really. Here it is.
You: You're going to turn into a Timbit you know
Me: (Smiling only because you look like David Boreanaz, anyone else could not get away with commenting on my eating habits at the drive thru) ...and french fries, and grilled cheese sandwiches.
You: What?
Me: Those are the other things I eat. Yes, I eat like a five year old, I know.
You: (laughing) That's awesome. You're awesome. Have a great day.
Ahem... I'M AWESOME! Furthermore, by looking like an actor that I'd like to have babies with, you have inadvertently reinforced this notion I have that said actor ALSO realizes my awesomeness and/or knows I exist. So good work, buddy, bet you didn't know you were actually serving Timbits AND a side of reinforcing delusional relationships with actors who don't know I exist!
Now, I have one bone to pick with you, Guy Who Looks Like David Boreanaz... this morning... there was a little bit of JELLY on one of my honey dip Timbits. Now let's get one thing straight here. I don't like jelly. If I did, I would probably order donuts that contained it. Since I do not like it, I choose donuts that do not contain it. Therefore, contaminating one of my precious fried-dough morsels with the sticky substance is a serious offense. I mean, I had to actually get a napkin and wipe it off before I could eat that Timbit. This caused me some deal of anguish.
That all said, I'm going to let it slide, Guy Who Looks Like David Boreanaz. Why, you ask? What makes you deserving of my forgiveness after such a heinous offense? Well, Guy Who Looks Like David Boreanaz, the answer is simple. You look like David Boreanaz. You tell me I'm awesome. Now I feel like David Boreanaz thinks I'm awesome. For that, I'm willing to overlook the offending jelly.
BUT - I do have to warn you, David Boreanaz-look-alike - my forgiveness only goes so far. This jelly-on-non-jelly-containing-donut thing must not be repeated... because sooner or later, I'm going to inadvertantly start resenting you (and possibly also the actual David Boreanaz) for the contamination of my breakfast foods. So, if you'd like our wonderfully fulfilling relationship to continue in the fashion it has for the last seven years, perhaps you should develop some sort of jelly detection system, and then only give contaminated Timbits to other customers who are less awesome than me. Just a suggestion.
In closing, Guy Who Looks Like David Boreanaz, besides the jelly incident this morning, I think you are awesome too. The only way in which you could possibly be more awesome is if you were ACTUALLY David Boreanaz. Then we would make babies. But since that's sadly not the case, just keep up the good work - the more you feed my delusions about my relationship with said actor, the more of your tasty Timbits I'll devour. Wait. Why did that sound sexual? Ugh. Anyways. No more jelly. Reinforce belief that David Boreanaz thinks I'm awesome. Do those two things and we're golden, got it?
But remember my fickle forgiveness... keep up the jelly thing, and I may be forced to go to Jolly Pirate. David Boreanaz does not look at all like a pirate, and you would be unable to sell more of your delicious breakfast to me, which I'm sure gives you great fulfillment... so I don't see that going well for either of us.
Much love, Guy Who Looks Like David Boreanaz.
XOXO,
Katie
Sunday, November 10, 2013
I Am Not Funny
Just so you know, I realize that.
I am not funny and neither is my blog, it's actually quite serious and occasionally depressing.
But you should also know that I am neither quite as serious/depressing as my blog might portray. It's merely an outlet for that part of my being - writing it has some sort of therapy value.
Lately I have been reading the pure genius found at Hyperbole and a Half, and realizing with only a slight pang of regret that I will simply Never Be That Funny... even if I stopped being serious/depressing and tried.
That said, reading the aforementioned blog has given me a lot of random ideas for things I'd like to blog about that are not quite as serious/depressing as my usual fare.
Like how I made my entire family hate even the sight or mention of peanut butter cookies. Or the time that I was 15 and in the emergency room with my first (five) kidney stones, which is actually an amusing story. Or the harrowing saga of trying to get a three year old to succumb to an afternoon nap. Or this hilarious sign I saw and took a picture of the other day (which would make a short blog post because I did take a picture of it). Or nearly half a dozen other things that crop up in the terrifying corn-maze (you know the one) that is my mind daily, but for some reason I can't think of right now.
So, if I blog about any of that stuff in the future, just know that I realize that I am not funny. I am not trying to turn my serious/depressing blog into a funny one. It's more like - ok, this is the actual example I thought up just now - normally what I put on my blog is whatever my brain pukes up. This time, my brain ate something like this funfetti cake that my mom made me because she was so glad I got a job (I am not kidding about that part)... and started barfing rainbows instead.
And that's the whole point of this post. To tell you that my brain may start barfing rainbows. You're welcome.
I am not funny and neither is my blog, it's actually quite serious and occasionally depressing.
But you should also know that I am neither quite as serious/depressing as my blog might portray. It's merely an outlet for that part of my being - writing it has some sort of therapy value.
Lately I have been reading the pure genius found at Hyperbole and a Half, and realizing with only a slight pang of regret that I will simply Never Be That Funny... even if I stopped being serious/depressing and tried.
That said, reading the aforementioned blog has given me a lot of random ideas for things I'd like to blog about that are not quite as serious/depressing as my usual fare.
Like how I made my entire family hate even the sight or mention of peanut butter cookies. Or the time that I was 15 and in the emergency room with my first (five) kidney stones, which is actually an amusing story. Or the harrowing saga of trying to get a three year old to succumb to an afternoon nap. Or this hilarious sign I saw and took a picture of the other day (which would make a short blog post because I did take a picture of it). Or nearly half a dozen other things that crop up in the terrifying corn-maze (you know the one) that is my mind daily, but for some reason I can't think of right now.
So, if I blog about any of that stuff in the future, just know that I realize that I am not funny. I am not trying to turn my serious/depressing blog into a funny one. It's more like - ok, this is the actual example I thought up just now - normally what I put on my blog is whatever my brain pukes up. This time, my brain ate something like this funfetti cake that my mom made me because she was so glad I got a job (I am not kidding about that part)... and started barfing rainbows instead.
 |
| This is the "I'm so glad you got a job" cake I spoke of. |
And that's the whole point of this post. To tell you that my brain may start barfing rainbows. You're welcome.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
My Little Boy
I write about A all the time. Probably because I spent the most time with her. She needed me the most. The crisis we faced was HER crisis more than anyone else's. But regardless of the reason, I talk about her a lot.
I don't talk about her half-brother a lot. And he was my baby too. In fact, he was almost more my baby... because when I brought him home at 8 weeks old, no one had ever attended to his needs the way I did. I was his first secure attachment. I was the one he wanted when nobody else could calm him down. I never even realized the gravity of it until my mom told me one day, after the umpteenth person had handed him back to me to handle, "You're his favorite person in the whole world. Nobody loves him like you do."
And I cried. I held my baby boy - my first baby boy, and cried. Because I loved him so much.
I was the one up with him all those sleepless nights. I was the one who comforted him when he didn't feel well (which was often, as he had a rather stubborn case of GERD among other things). He slept by my side in a cosleeper for six months. I bought his formula, his diapers, his clothes. I saw his precious smiles. I was there for all his firsts.
And now, three years after that last picture was taken... my baby boy is four.
And I forgot his birthday until today.
No, it wasn't his first birthday without me. Yes, it's been over a year since I've seen him. Yes, I was up to my ears in something else that day. But when it was his sister's birthday in May, I broke - completely. And I forgot his. And he was my baby.
How horrible is that?
When I realized it tonight - that my baby boy turned FOUR without me ever noticing - I knew it was coming up, I never forgot the date... but I missed it - I started to cry.
Four.
Tonight I want to take a minute to talk about my little boy... who isn't such a baby anymore.
He loved mashed potatoes. And pizza. And pretty much any kind of junk food... but when he was a baby, peas were his favorite.
His first word was "duck". And I put a lot of effort into that! The kid had more ducks than I can count on all my fingers and toes.
My mom used to sing him "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep", and he'd get this serene little smile on his face, like that song just made everything better... even when I teased her after realizing that the lyrics sort of, kind of suggest that it might be about slavery.
His favorite toys were balls, cars, and any markers he could get his hands on. Thus the following picture:
Once, he dumped out an entire bag of potato chips, and then laid in them. Some people would've been mad. I barely managed to stop laughing long enough to take a picture.
He loved his bath... except for the part where I had to wash his hair. He didn't like water to touch his head... at first I thought it was just lying down, but dumping it was worse.
When he was 18 months old he broke his leg while not in my care. He had just barely started walking and then had to drag that heavy thing around half the summer... it sucked. But it didn't keep my little guy down.
This is the last picture I took of him...
My best friend was cutting his sister's hair, and he took it upon himself to find one of her daughter's headbands and put it on - his way. It was too cute not to take a picture!
He was two and a half when I said goodbye to him. I had no idea it would be the last goodbye for so long.
He faced so many struggles in his short little life. I wonder how he's doing now. If his fits have calmed down or gotten worse. If his language has improved, or slacked. If he's still my chunky monkey who was wearing 4T shirts at two. If he's anywhere near potty training. If he's going to Head Start.
Even just where he is.
Because that little boy is another piece of my heart, walking around outside my body. And maybe I didn't have him as long, or as intensely, as I had his sister, but he was my little boy all the same. And I miss him. I love him.
Happy late birthday little man. I know it's no excuse, but if you were here, I wouldn't have forgotten. We'd have had a party. Maybe driven down to Nelsonville to ride the train (if you don't like trains, you would have if you'd stuck around me much longer!) like we did when my brother was that age.
One day we'll be together again. I know it. Love you much, my little goober pea.
I don't talk about her half-brother a lot. And he was my baby too. In fact, he was almost more my baby... because when I brought him home at 8 weeks old, no one had ever attended to his needs the way I did. I was his first secure attachment. I was the one he wanted when nobody else could calm him down. I never even realized the gravity of it until my mom told me one day, after the umpteenth person had handed him back to me to handle, "You're his favorite person in the whole world. Nobody loves him like you do."
And I cried. I held my baby boy - my first baby boy, and cried. Because I loved him so much.
 |
| First picture... blurry picture... of his first night home. |
I was the one up with him all those sleepless nights. I was the one who comforted him when he didn't feel well (which was often, as he had a rather stubborn case of GERD among other things). He slept by my side in a cosleeper for six months. I bought his formula, his diapers, his clothes. I saw his precious smiles. I was there for all his firsts.
 |
| First bath |
 |
| First baby food |
 |
| First time swimming |
 |
| First trip to the pumpkin patch |
 |
| First Trick-or-Treat |
 |
| First birthday |
And now, three years after that last picture was taken... my baby boy is four.
And I forgot his birthday until today.
No, it wasn't his first birthday without me. Yes, it's been over a year since I've seen him. Yes, I was up to my ears in something else that day. But when it was his sister's birthday in May, I broke - completely. And I forgot his. And he was my baby.
How horrible is that?
When I realized it tonight - that my baby boy turned FOUR without me ever noticing - I knew it was coming up, I never forgot the date... but I missed it - I started to cry.
Four.
Tonight I want to take a minute to talk about my little boy... who isn't such a baby anymore.
He loved mashed potatoes. And pizza. And pretty much any kind of junk food... but when he was a baby, peas were his favorite.
His first word was "duck". And I put a lot of effort into that! The kid had more ducks than I can count on all my fingers and toes.
My mom used to sing him "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep", and he'd get this serene little smile on his face, like that song just made everything better... even when I teased her after realizing that the lyrics sort of, kind of suggest that it might be about slavery.
His favorite toys were balls, cars, and any markers he could get his hands on. Thus the following picture:
Once, he dumped out an entire bag of potato chips, and then laid in them. Some people would've been mad. I barely managed to stop laughing long enough to take a picture.
He loved his bath... except for the part where I had to wash his hair. He didn't like water to touch his head... at first I thought it was just lying down, but dumping it was worse.
When he was 18 months old he broke his leg while not in my care. He had just barely started walking and then had to drag that heavy thing around half the summer... it sucked. But it didn't keep my little guy down.
This is the last picture I took of him...
My best friend was cutting his sister's hair, and he took it upon himself to find one of her daughter's headbands and put it on - his way. It was too cute not to take a picture!
He was two and a half when I said goodbye to him. I had no idea it would be the last goodbye for so long.
He faced so many struggles in his short little life. I wonder how he's doing now. If his fits have calmed down or gotten worse. If his language has improved, or slacked. If he's still my chunky monkey who was wearing 4T shirts at two. If he's anywhere near potty training. If he's going to Head Start.
Even just where he is.
Because that little boy is another piece of my heart, walking around outside my body. And maybe I didn't have him as long, or as intensely, as I had his sister, but he was my little boy all the same. And I miss him. I love him.
Happy late birthday little man. I know it's no excuse, but if you were here, I wouldn't have forgotten. We'd have had a party. Maybe driven down to Nelsonville to ride the train (if you don't like trains, you would have if you'd stuck around me much longer!) like we did when my brother was that age.
One day we'll be together again. I know it. Love you much, my little goober pea.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Sometimes
Sometimes, Princess, I wonder what it's like to be you.
One year, three months, and six days ago, you and I had the most difficult conversation either of us have probably had in our entire lives. A conversation I'd feared would eventually happen for over seven years. A conversation that confirmed my worst fears.
I will never forget a single detail about that day, or that conversation. Months later, I was asked how I remembered all the details of that conversation, and I responded, unequivocally, "I will never forget a single word. I can't."
A sick feeling settled in my stomach that day that didn't go away. It got better with time - and distraction - but it never completely went away. Once I knew the truth, I couldn't pretend otherwise.
To this day, things randomly remind me of the immense feelings of that day. Fear. Anger. Disgust. Heartbreak. To this day, sometimes, it feels as though I'm living the whole ordeal over again.
Then I remember. I am the lucky one. For me, it was just a conversation - albeit the most troubling one I have ever had. For me, it was only your words that will stick permanently in my mind.
For you, it is your life.
As much as I'll never forget that day, that conversation, neither will you... and nor will you forget the events that brought it about. You don't simply have to live with the memory of the words, how they made you feel, but with the horrible memories.
So when something brings me back to that day, makes me feel like I'm living the horror all over again, I wonder... do you experience the same thing? Do things remind you, sometimes, of what you've been through? Do you lie awake at night like I do, unable to get the horror out of your head?
My heart breaks when I realize I know the answer.
I remember, a couple years ago, when we all still shared a room, hearing you cry in your sleep. Rousing you from your nightmares and finding you confused to realize you were in a safe place with someone who loved you, and that this time, the terror was only in your dreams.
Yes, you remember.
And then I think how sorry I am. Sorry for what you went through. Sorry that even when you entrusted me with your secret, I couldn't help you. Sorry that while I live with the memory of that conversation in my head every day, popping back up at opportune moments, you live with the real memory. The memory of what happened... sneaking up on you all the same. Sorry that I couldn't put a stop to the chance that something like this might happen to you again.
But then I realize - you're strong. You're one of the strongest people I've ever known, little as you were. Stronger than I am, for sure. When I fell apart... you held it together. What other choice did you have? When I cried and asked God "Why?", you just kept going on... no need to dwell on the "why" of a situation you couldn't change. When I felt as though my joy had been stolen, you went on to find it again wherever you were.
You'll be okay - because you're a survivor.
I just wish you didn't have to survive so much.
I wish you never had those moments that I have, where something hits a little too close to home and brings it all crashing down around you again.
I wish I could shoulder the whole burden for you.
I wish you'd had a chance to just be a kid... none of this weighing on your mind.
But I can't change those things.
So I'll just wait. Wait here for you, the same place you left me.
Until you come home.
And then we'll make all new memories... and fight the monsters in our nightmares together.
I love you, princess. Keep your head up, like you always do. Even when it gets hard.
And I'll keep trying... to be as strong as you.
One year, three months, and six days ago, you and I had the most difficult conversation either of us have probably had in our entire lives. A conversation I'd feared would eventually happen for over seven years. A conversation that confirmed my worst fears.
I will never forget a single detail about that day, or that conversation. Months later, I was asked how I remembered all the details of that conversation, and I responded, unequivocally, "I will never forget a single word. I can't."
A sick feeling settled in my stomach that day that didn't go away. It got better with time - and distraction - but it never completely went away. Once I knew the truth, I couldn't pretend otherwise.
To this day, things randomly remind me of the immense feelings of that day. Fear. Anger. Disgust. Heartbreak. To this day, sometimes, it feels as though I'm living the whole ordeal over again.
Then I remember. I am the lucky one. For me, it was just a conversation - albeit the most troubling one I have ever had. For me, it was only your words that will stick permanently in my mind.
For you, it is your life.
As much as I'll never forget that day, that conversation, neither will you... and nor will you forget the events that brought it about. You don't simply have to live with the memory of the words, how they made you feel, but with the horrible memories.
So when something brings me back to that day, makes me feel like I'm living the horror all over again, I wonder... do you experience the same thing? Do things remind you, sometimes, of what you've been through? Do you lie awake at night like I do, unable to get the horror out of your head?
My heart breaks when I realize I know the answer.
I remember, a couple years ago, when we all still shared a room, hearing you cry in your sleep. Rousing you from your nightmares and finding you confused to realize you were in a safe place with someone who loved you, and that this time, the terror was only in your dreams.
Yes, you remember.
And then I think how sorry I am. Sorry for what you went through. Sorry that even when you entrusted me with your secret, I couldn't help you. Sorry that while I live with the memory of that conversation in my head every day, popping back up at opportune moments, you live with the real memory. The memory of what happened... sneaking up on you all the same. Sorry that I couldn't put a stop to the chance that something like this might happen to you again.
But then I realize - you're strong. You're one of the strongest people I've ever known, little as you were. Stronger than I am, for sure. When I fell apart... you held it together. What other choice did you have? When I cried and asked God "Why?", you just kept going on... no need to dwell on the "why" of a situation you couldn't change. When I felt as though my joy had been stolen, you went on to find it again wherever you were.
You'll be okay - because you're a survivor.
I just wish you didn't have to survive so much.
I wish you never had those moments that I have, where something hits a little too close to home and brings it all crashing down around you again.
I wish I could shoulder the whole burden for you.
I wish you'd had a chance to just be a kid... none of this weighing on your mind.
But I can't change those things.
So I'll just wait. Wait here for you, the same place you left me.
Until you come home.
And then we'll make all new memories... and fight the monsters in our nightmares together.
I love you, princess. Keep your head up, like you always do. Even when it gets hard.
And I'll keep trying... to be as strong as you.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Pretty Picture
Dear Princess,
I haven't written to you in a long time, besides last night. I'm sorry. Sometimes it's just too hard, and I know I have to stay strong so I can be here for you when you come home. But lately, for some reason, I've just been up late every night thinking of you, and wanting to tell you so many things.
Today I spent all day across the street at Shannon's house with her, Mike, the kids, and our friend Hayley and her family. We had a brief conversation that made me think of you and choked me up, and when I came home, I was still thinking of you, and thinking of how even in the short couple of months you knew them, Shannon, Mike and the kids became your family just like they are mine.
When crisis struck for you and me, I relied on Shannon a lot. She came over as soon as I got home on that last day... she sat with me in the front yard while I cried and talked to a police officer and talked to your grandma. Friday night after her kids were in bed, she brought me over pizza and pop and an offer to talk, cry, or whatever I needed. We talked a lot that night, and she made me feel better. She understood the situation we were in better than anyone, and she told me she knew that you knew that I wanted you, that I was fighting for you... and that you wouldn't forget it. I needed to hear that so badly. She spent the next couple days with me... because I just desperately needed to not be alone.
The next time I saw your friends J and N, they were eating lunch at the kitchen table, and J asked to say a prayer. She said "Bless Mommy and Daddy and Mike and Katie and N and M and grandmas and grandpas and uncles and aunts and everyone we love, and especially pray for A, so she can be safe and come home to Katie's house and play with us some more.... and that's all." When Shannon looked over I had tears in my eyes. Your friends loved you so much, that even though they were just kids themselves, they remembered to pray for you.
It was only a couple months ago that I was standing in their kitchen and noticed something. Your picture, your 2nd grade school picture, was hanging on their refridgerator. I'd given it to them a while back, so the girls would have it to remember their friend. I commented "Aww. It's my baby!" and Shannon told me the picture had been hanging there since I'd given it to her, so that they'd think of you every day.
I was so touched. Sweetie, as much rotten luck as we've had, we've had good luck too. We've had amazing people put in our lives. Shannon and Mike and J and N love you and think about you and pray for you to this very day. They support me and listen to me when I need a shoulder to cry on because I just miss you so much. They know the situation we're in better than anybody else, they know how hard it is, and they care. And just because you're not here right now doesn't mean they've stopped caring. Not one bit. They haven't forgotten you any more than I have... and trust me, forgetting you is something I will NEVER do.
So even when you feel alone... like I do sometimes when I miss you so much that I think nobody could possibly understand... I want you to know that you're not alone. You have people, just like I do, who are thinking of you and praying for you, even if you don't know it... and they'll be right here with me to hug you and welcome you whenever you come home!
Don't forget... I love you like the moon at night... big, and round, and warm, and bright.
I love you, goodnight.
<3 - "Kai"
I haven't written to you in a long time, besides last night. I'm sorry. Sometimes it's just too hard, and I know I have to stay strong so I can be here for you when you come home. But lately, for some reason, I've just been up late every night thinking of you, and wanting to tell you so many things.
Today I spent all day across the street at Shannon's house with her, Mike, the kids, and our friend Hayley and her family. We had a brief conversation that made me think of you and choked me up, and when I came home, I was still thinking of you, and thinking of how even in the short couple of months you knew them, Shannon, Mike and the kids became your family just like they are mine.
When crisis struck for you and me, I relied on Shannon a lot. She came over as soon as I got home on that last day... she sat with me in the front yard while I cried and talked to a police officer and talked to your grandma. Friday night after her kids were in bed, she brought me over pizza and pop and an offer to talk, cry, or whatever I needed. We talked a lot that night, and she made me feel better. She understood the situation we were in better than anyone, and she told me she knew that you knew that I wanted you, that I was fighting for you... and that you wouldn't forget it. I needed to hear that so badly. She spent the next couple days with me... because I just desperately needed to not be alone.
The next time I saw your friends J and N, they were eating lunch at the kitchen table, and J asked to say a prayer. She said "Bless Mommy and Daddy and Mike and Katie and N and M and grandmas and grandpas and uncles and aunts and everyone we love, and especially pray for A, so she can be safe and come home to Katie's house and play with us some more.... and that's all." When Shannon looked over I had tears in my eyes. Your friends loved you so much, that even though they were just kids themselves, they remembered to pray for you.
It was only a couple months ago that I was standing in their kitchen and noticed something. Your picture, your 2nd grade school picture, was hanging on their refridgerator. I'd given it to them a while back, so the girls would have it to remember their friend. I commented "Aww. It's my baby!" and Shannon told me the picture had been hanging there since I'd given it to her, so that they'd think of you every day.
I was so touched. Sweetie, as much rotten luck as we've had, we've had good luck too. We've had amazing people put in our lives. Shannon and Mike and J and N love you and think about you and pray for you to this very day. They support me and listen to me when I need a shoulder to cry on because I just miss you so much. They know the situation we're in better than anybody else, they know how hard it is, and they care. And just because you're not here right now doesn't mean they've stopped caring. Not one bit. They haven't forgotten you any more than I have... and trust me, forgetting you is something I will NEVER do.
So even when you feel alone... like I do sometimes when I miss you so much that I think nobody could possibly understand... I want you to know that you're not alone. You have people, just like I do, who are thinking of you and praying for you, even if you don't know it... and they'll be right here with me to hug you and welcome you whenever you come home!
Don't forget... I love you like the moon at night... big, and round, and warm, and bright.
I love you, goodnight.
<3 - "Kai"
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
The Last Day
I think about it all the time.
The last day.
The last hug.
The last words.
The first tears.
I woke up before the sun and put on my brave face before I woke you.
I practiced holding back the fear, dread, sorrow, and disgust that had been festering in me all the day before.
I shook you awake and readied you to leave the place that had been our haven for almost a week.
We said goodbye to the ocean.
I drove us to the shuttle bus. We climbed in and I buckled you safe in your booster seat.
Every mile we drove closer to the airport, my shoulders felt a little heavier.
We got donuts for breakfast. The anxiety in my stomach kept me from eating much of mine.
I like to think you had no idea.
I tried not to let on.
We boarded the first plane. I let you pick, aisle or window. You picked window. We watched Florida out of sight. We played with play-doh. We watched the sun coming up over the ocean. We looked through an I-Spy book. We got drinks from the beverage cart. You wore your Minnie Mouse ears the whole time.
In a plane, the miles go by faster.
By the time we landed in Washington DC, my stomach had sunk impossibly low.
We got lunch at Wendy's between flights. You got barbecue sauce with your nuggets. I couldn't eat, again.
I didn't want to get on the plane.
I kept hoping that somehow it would be delayed, cancelled, diverted. I didn't care how or why.
It wasn't.
We boarded. I took a few last pictures.
I hope I'm imagining an edge of nervousness behind your smile.
I know I'm not imagining it in mine.
As I watched the ground grow closer, I drew you near me.
It was time to tell you.
All the feelings I'd been trying to hide all day... you were about to feel them too.
I had tried to keep that from you as long as I could.
I told you that I was going to take you to meet some people. People that we'd never met before, but I knew they were nice people because I'd talked to them the previous day.
I told you I needed your help. I told you they could help us, but only if you told them the truth.
You didn't want to.
Maybe I shouldn't have pushed you.
But I did. I asked you if you wanted them to help us. You said yes. I asked you if you would tell them the truth so they could do that. You said yes.
I wonder if you knew then, or if you didn't know until later, that I was asking too much of you?
I wonder if you knew you wouldn't be able to do what I'd asked?
Wheels touched down.
You told me you just wanted to go 'home'. "To the cats". To OUR house.
I told you I did too... but we had to tell the people the truth first.
This time I wasn't the only one carrying a weight of stress on my shoulders as we walked through the airport.
It was palpable how there was no longer any distance between us and that which we feared.
I was afraid to let you out of my sight even to use the restroom (but I did).
As we sat in the baggage claim waiting for my mom, the stress mounted.
I tried to lighten the mood, playing games with you, chatting about things of little consequence.
Minutes lasted for days. I wished them away. I wanted to get the hard part over with.
Now I wish I had those minutes back.
When my mom finally came, we both hugged her. You told her, too, that you wanted to go home to the cats.
She, too, reassured you that we would... we just had one stop to make.
I wonder if your palms sweated like mine did on that car ride.
We walked into the building together. I asked for someone to help us. They tried to send us away. I begged. I insisted.
Things didn't go as planned.
I had wanted you to feel safe. Safe enough to share the burdens of your heart.
You knew you weren't.
I tried to hide the phone calls from you. The angry voices.
It was because of that that I almost missed the last hug I gave you.
A woman came out to take you to a room to talk. Her name was Katie too. I remember telling you that if her name was Katie she MUST be our friend.
I gave you a hug.
I told you I loved you.
I watched you out of sight.
You didn't want to go without me.
You were scared.
I pushed you too much.
No matter how much you might have wanted to do what I'd asked, your secrets stayed locked away.
The woman came back without you.
She told me you hadn't told her anything.
She told me we would have to leave.
Without you.
I asked her if I could say goodbye to you.
"I don't think that's a good idea," was her response.
She told me you were already crying for me.
I broke.
Panic struck me. Terror.
I begged her to protect you. To tell you I loved you.
She said she would.
I clung to my mom and cried.
She, too, demanded your safety.
We were given a chance to gather a few of your belongings to give to you.
I was shaking. I wasn't thinking clearly.
I don't even remember what was in the bag.
I gave it to the woman named Katie. I asked her again to make sure you knew we loved you.
Then I did the hardest thing I have ever done in my entire life.
The hardest thing I will ever do.
I walked out of that building without you.
As we walked down the sidewalk, my mom and I, a thought crossed my mind.
Another time. A time when I had been on the inside of a window similar to the ones we were walking by. A mimed reassurance.
I turned to look in the windows just in time.
There you were.
Behind two inches of glass.
Sitting stiffly in a chair, alone.
Looking right back at me.
When you saw me you stood, and came to the window.
I immediately stopped the flow of my tears and forced a smile.
I pointed to my eye.
Then I crossed my arms.
Then I pointed at you.
You pointed to your eye.
You crossed your arms.
You pointed at me.
Then you held up two fingers.
I touched my fingers to the glass.
You touched your fingers to the glass.
I tore my body from where it was cemented to the ground.
I waved. I mouthed "bye-bye".
I forced another smile.
Then I turned away.
I walked to the car.
I cried all the way home.
I failed you.
I'm sorry.
A hug of reassurance.
A signed 'I love you' through two inches of glass.
A flood of salty tears.
And that was the last day I spent with you.
The last day.
The last hug.
The last words.
The first tears.
I woke up before the sun and put on my brave face before I woke you.
I practiced holding back the fear, dread, sorrow, and disgust that had been festering in me all the day before.
I shook you awake and readied you to leave the place that had been our haven for almost a week.
We said goodbye to the ocean.
I drove us to the shuttle bus. We climbed in and I buckled you safe in your booster seat.
Every mile we drove closer to the airport, my shoulders felt a little heavier.
We got donuts for breakfast. The anxiety in my stomach kept me from eating much of mine.
I like to think you had no idea.
I tried not to let on.
We boarded the first plane. I let you pick, aisle or window. You picked window. We watched Florida out of sight. We played with play-doh. We watched the sun coming up over the ocean. We looked through an I-Spy book. We got drinks from the beverage cart. You wore your Minnie Mouse ears the whole time.
In a plane, the miles go by faster.
By the time we landed in Washington DC, my stomach had sunk impossibly low.
We got lunch at Wendy's between flights. You got barbecue sauce with your nuggets. I couldn't eat, again.
I didn't want to get on the plane.
I kept hoping that somehow it would be delayed, cancelled, diverted. I didn't care how or why.
It wasn't.
We boarded. I took a few last pictures.
I hope I'm imagining an edge of nervousness behind your smile.
I know I'm not imagining it in mine.
As I watched the ground grow closer, I drew you near me.
It was time to tell you.
All the feelings I'd been trying to hide all day... you were about to feel them too.
I had tried to keep that from you as long as I could.
I told you that I was going to take you to meet some people. People that we'd never met before, but I knew they were nice people because I'd talked to them the previous day.
I told you I needed your help. I told you they could help us, but only if you told them the truth.
You didn't want to.
Maybe I shouldn't have pushed you.
But I did. I asked you if you wanted them to help us. You said yes. I asked you if you would tell them the truth so they could do that. You said yes.
I wonder if you knew then, or if you didn't know until later, that I was asking too much of you?
I wonder if you knew you wouldn't be able to do what I'd asked?
Wheels touched down.
You told me you just wanted to go 'home'. "To the cats". To OUR house.
I told you I did too... but we had to tell the people the truth first.
This time I wasn't the only one carrying a weight of stress on my shoulders as we walked through the airport.
It was palpable how there was no longer any distance between us and that which we feared.
I was afraid to let you out of my sight even to use the restroom (but I did).
As we sat in the baggage claim waiting for my mom, the stress mounted.
I tried to lighten the mood, playing games with you, chatting about things of little consequence.
Minutes lasted for days. I wished them away. I wanted to get the hard part over with.
Now I wish I had those minutes back.
When my mom finally came, we both hugged her. You told her, too, that you wanted to go home to the cats.
She, too, reassured you that we would... we just had one stop to make.
I wonder if your palms sweated like mine did on that car ride.
We walked into the building together. I asked for someone to help us. They tried to send us away. I begged. I insisted.
Things didn't go as planned.
I had wanted you to feel safe. Safe enough to share the burdens of your heart.
You knew you weren't.
I tried to hide the phone calls from you. The angry voices.
It was because of that that I almost missed the last hug I gave you.
A woman came out to take you to a room to talk. Her name was Katie too. I remember telling you that if her name was Katie she MUST be our friend.
I gave you a hug.
I told you I loved you.
I watched you out of sight.
You didn't want to go without me.
You were scared.
I pushed you too much.
No matter how much you might have wanted to do what I'd asked, your secrets stayed locked away.
The woman came back without you.
She told me you hadn't told her anything.
She told me we would have to leave.
Without you.
I asked her if I could say goodbye to you.
"I don't think that's a good idea," was her response.
She told me you were already crying for me.
I broke.
Panic struck me. Terror.
I begged her to protect you. To tell you I loved you.
She said she would.
I clung to my mom and cried.
She, too, demanded your safety.
We were given a chance to gather a few of your belongings to give to you.
I was shaking. I wasn't thinking clearly.
I don't even remember what was in the bag.
I gave it to the woman named Katie. I asked her again to make sure you knew we loved you.
Then I did the hardest thing I have ever done in my entire life.
The hardest thing I will ever do.
I walked out of that building without you.
As we walked down the sidewalk, my mom and I, a thought crossed my mind.
Another time. A time when I had been on the inside of a window similar to the ones we were walking by. A mimed reassurance.
I turned to look in the windows just in time.
There you were.
Behind two inches of glass.
Sitting stiffly in a chair, alone.
Looking right back at me.
When you saw me you stood, and came to the window.
I immediately stopped the flow of my tears and forced a smile.
I pointed to my eye.
Then I crossed my arms.
Then I pointed at you.
You pointed to your eye.
You crossed your arms.
You pointed at me.
Then you held up two fingers.
I touched my fingers to the glass.
You touched your fingers to the glass.
I tore my body from where it was cemented to the ground.
I waved. I mouthed "bye-bye".
I forced another smile.
Then I turned away.
I walked to the car.
I cried all the way home.
I failed you.
I'm sorry.
A hug of reassurance.
A signed 'I love you' through two inches of glass.
A flood of salty tears.
And that was the last day I spent with you.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Confessions
I have to confess something.
I hate this time of year.
The holidays are hard for me.
I don't care for the Halloween costumes, candy, buckets and decorations.
I hide out alone on Trick or Treat night.
I get sick of seeing and hearing "I'm thankful" everywhere.
I even hurt, seeing stores stock up with Christmas trees, twinkly lights, colored papers and toys for every child's wish list.
I hurt going to the mall and seeing the line of squirming children waiting to see Santa.
I dread going to events, get-togethers, and even just family dinners... and putting on a plastic smile, because I'm not really happy.
I wasn't always that way.
I used to love going to the pumpkin patch.
I used to wait anxiously for Trick-or-Treat night.
I used to have so much to be thankful for.
So much that words weren't even enough to describe it.
I used to love setting cookies and letters out for 'Santa' (even when it wasn't for me anymore).
I relished in creating the perfect scene for 'Christmas morning'.
I even loved the post-Christmas mess left in our living room every year.
But now it's all a painful reminder.
I don't have anyone to take Trick-or-Treating.
There's no one to watch playing at the pumpkin patch.
I lost those for whom I was once most thankful.
There's no one to write letters to Santa or pose for photo ops.
No one to appreciate the culmination of my efforts on Christmas morning.
Not much point in really making an effort at all.
When everyone else talks about their kids' costumes, handprint turkeys and mile-long wish lists...
I think about my wish list.
And there's only one thing on it.
I just want to see them again. It's killing me to miss them growing up.
So I'm sorry, in advance, for my plastic smile.
I'm sorry for the times I'll excuse myself to go cry in the bathroom.
I'm sorry I can't be excited with you when you tell me your holiday plans.
This time of year is just too painful right now.
Maybe someday it won't be.
Maybe.
I hate this time of year.
The holidays are hard for me.
I don't care for the Halloween costumes, candy, buckets and decorations.
I hide out alone on Trick or Treat night.
I get sick of seeing and hearing "I'm thankful" everywhere.
I even hurt, seeing stores stock up with Christmas trees, twinkly lights, colored papers and toys for every child's wish list.
I hurt going to the mall and seeing the line of squirming children waiting to see Santa.
I dread going to events, get-togethers, and even just family dinners... and putting on a plastic smile, because I'm not really happy.
I wasn't always that way.
I used to love going to the pumpkin patch.
I used to wait anxiously for Trick-or-Treat night.
I used to have so much to be thankful for.
So much that words weren't even enough to describe it.
I used to love setting cookies and letters out for 'Santa' (even when it wasn't for me anymore).
I relished in creating the perfect scene for 'Christmas morning'.
I even loved the post-Christmas mess left in our living room every year.
But now it's all a painful reminder.
I don't have anyone to take Trick-or-Treating.
There's no one to watch playing at the pumpkin patch.
I lost those for whom I was once most thankful.
There's no one to write letters to Santa or pose for photo ops.
No one to appreciate the culmination of my efforts on Christmas morning.
Not much point in really making an effort at all.
When everyone else talks about their kids' costumes, handprint turkeys and mile-long wish lists...
I think about my wish list.
And there's only one thing on it.
I just want to see them again. It's killing me to miss them growing up.
So I'm sorry, in advance, for my plastic smile.
I'm sorry for the times I'll excuse myself to go cry in the bathroom.
I'm sorry I can't be excited with you when you tell me your holiday plans.
This time of year is just too painful right now.
Maybe someday it won't be.
Maybe.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Surgery... and a plea
Tomorrow I go in for surgery to excise the endometriosis that causes me such extreme pain each month.
This is the same type of surgery that almost killed me two years ago... but the same type that was successful three years before that.
It is a new doctor... a man of God who has helped a dear friend of mine get her life back.
I come to you humbly asking for prayer
...that I will get through this surgery without complications
...that it will give me my life back
...for a smooth and minimally painful recovery.
I also come to you asking for your blessings for some dear friends of mine while I am 'out of commission'.
This is "Annie".
Remember her? Remember those eyes that reminded me so much of my A when I saw them for the first time this Spring?
Annie is being adopted!
It absolutely thrills me to tell you that God used me and my precious A to help her find her family.
I "met" Amanda shortly after I posted about Annie in May. She and her husband have committed to adopt her. It makes me grin just thinking about how it all came about. A total God story.
Amanda is an amazing and generous person and has launched a fundraiser to help not only her family, but another family bring home their child(ren). It is a 50/50 wherein you get to vote on which family will receive the other half of the funds. Amanda and her husband put up the first $100, because they are wonderful, selfless people committed to helping ALL orphans. Their donation was finally matched yesterday bringing the fundraiser total to $200. With the donations divided in half, Amanda and her husband would just break even if the fundraiser ended today.
But it doesn't. There are a little over five days left of this fundraiser. Still plenty of time to donate for your favorite child or family...
...or just to make your friend Katie smile.
It is my dearest wish that I will come home to a significant bump in the Jones' family's fundraising efforts. Please check it out here.
Just $5 earns you a vote. Little more than a bag of potato chips. Think of the difference it would make if we ALL just chipped in $5.
You can also find their tax-deductible Reece's Rainbow FSP here.
Pretty please?
This is the same type of surgery that almost killed me two years ago... but the same type that was successful three years before that.
It is a new doctor... a man of God who has helped a dear friend of mine get her life back.
I come to you humbly asking for prayer
...that I will get through this surgery without complications
...that it will give me my life back
...for a smooth and minimally painful recovery.
I also come to you asking for your blessings for some dear friends of mine while I am 'out of commission'.
This is "Annie".
Remember her? Remember those eyes that reminded me so much of my A when I saw them for the first time this Spring?
Annie is being adopted!
It absolutely thrills me to tell you that God used me and my precious A to help her find her family.
I "met" Amanda shortly after I posted about Annie in May. She and her husband have committed to adopt her. It makes me grin just thinking about how it all came about. A total God story.
Amanda is an amazing and generous person and has launched a fundraiser to help not only her family, but another family bring home their child(ren). It is a 50/50 wherein you get to vote on which family will receive the other half of the funds. Amanda and her husband put up the first $100, because they are wonderful, selfless people committed to helping ALL orphans. Their donation was finally matched yesterday bringing the fundraiser total to $200. With the donations divided in half, Amanda and her husband would just break even if the fundraiser ended today.
But it doesn't. There are a little over five days left of this fundraiser. Still plenty of time to donate for your favorite child or family...
...or just to make your friend Katie smile.
It is my dearest wish that I will come home to a significant bump in the Jones' family's fundraising efforts. Please check it out here.
Just $5 earns you a vote. Little more than a bag of potato chips. Think of the difference it would make if we ALL just chipped in $5.
You can also find their tax-deductible Reece's Rainbow FSP here.
Pretty please?
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Time Flies
Sometimes I just can't get over it.
This feels like it was just last week.
It wasn't. It was years ago. Those handprints aren't so little anymore.
Those little girls have grown so much.
My baby isn't a baby anymore.
He's probably starting Head Start this year... when it seems like just yesterday his sister was graduating.
She's ten whole years old and going to be in fourth grade this year - I can't believe it. When I took the above picture, she had just started Kindergarten. (The date is wrong)
My 'Little A' is older than my M was when this sweet picture was taken.
M started high school last week.
This trip to the zoo was over four years ago.
My babies. They were so beautiful.
They are so beautiful.
They wouldn't even fit in these car seats anymore.
I love them.
I miss my little boy... my trouble-maker, who will be four years old this year.
I miss my little girl... the one who has seen more than any child should have to... and who finds a reason to smile anyways.
I thank God I still have the privilege of spending time with my big girl... who is turning into such a wonderful young lady.
Time flies.
Kids grow.
Enjoy every minute you have with them.
This feels like it was just last week.
It wasn't. It was years ago. Those handprints aren't so little anymore.
Those little girls have grown so much.
My baby isn't a baby anymore.
He's probably starting Head Start this year... when it seems like just yesterday his sister was graduating.
She's ten whole years old and going to be in fourth grade this year - I can't believe it. When I took the above picture, she had just started Kindergarten. (The date is wrong)
My 'Little A' is older than my M was when this sweet picture was taken.
M started high school last week.
This trip to the zoo was over four years ago.
My babies. They were so beautiful.
They are so beautiful.
They wouldn't even fit in these car seats anymore.
I miss my little boy... my trouble-maker, who will be four years old this year.
I miss my little girl... the one who has seen more than any child should have to... and who finds a reason to smile anyways.
I thank God I still have the privilege of spending time with my big girl... who is turning into such a wonderful young lady.
Time flies.
Kids grow.
Enjoy every minute you have with them.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Endometriosis: Facts You've Probably Never Heard
As my struggles with my endometriosis have worsened over the past few months, I've found myself thinking - if people really knew the facts about endometriosis, would they still treat sufferers with such indifference? I think not... which is why I'm launching this new awareness campaign: Things You Didn't Know About Endometriosis. Today I'm going to list a series of facts about endo that most people who don't have the disease (medical practicioners included) probably don't know. After that, I'm going to highlight each fact in its own blog post, including personal testimonies from endometriosis sufferers, medical research, case studies, surgical reports, and anything else I can gain access to. I encourage you to share these posts with your family, friends, and doctors - both endo sufferers and non-sufferers. Maybe, together, we can increase understanding of this disease in both the general population and the medical community... and maybe, if we can't bring an end to our suffering, we can at least decrease it.
Before I get into the little known facts, I want to give a brief overview of what endometriosis is, for anyone who might not know. Endometriosis is a chronic disease of the female reproductive system for which there is no cure. Endometriosis occurs when the endometrial lining (which normally grows inside the uterus to allow a growing embryo to implant, or is shed during a monthly period) actually grows *outside* the uterus. Endometrial tissue can commonly be found on the uterus, fallopian tubes, ovaries, bladder, and pelvic cavity walls of endometriosis sufferers. It can also travel to more distant organs. Occasionally, endometriosis causes cysts - fluid or semi-solid sacs - to form on the ovaries. This abnormal tissue can cause a variety of issues in the pelvic cavity, as it is actual, solid tissue that is not meant to be there. Endometriosis can cause severe pelvic pain, abnormal and heavy periods, and infertility, among other things.
Here's a little something to help put this into perspective.
The definition of Endometriosis, from the National Library of Medicine: "Endometriosis is a female health disorder that occurs when cells from the lining of the womb (uterus) grow in other areas of the body."
The definition of Cancer, from the National Library of Medicine: "Cancer is the uncontrolled growth of abnormal cells in the body."
There is certainly one main difference between the two: Cancer cells are malignant, and will grow uncontrollably until they take over healthy cells. They grow at an unsually rapid rate, which is what causes this disease to be fatal. Endometrial cells are not malignant. They grow at a normal rate, thus the disease does not usually result in death. But look at the similarities. Abnormal cells, cells that don't belong where they are found, that can grow anywhere in the body... on healthy organs... encroaching on the space they need to perform their life-sustaining functions. Malignancy. That's the difference. Not so different after all, it seems... especially when you consider the following:
Before I get into the little known facts, I want to give a brief overview of what endometriosis is, for anyone who might not know. Endometriosis is a chronic disease of the female reproductive system for which there is no cure. Endometriosis occurs when the endometrial lining (which normally grows inside the uterus to allow a growing embryo to implant, or is shed during a monthly period) actually grows *outside* the uterus. Endometrial tissue can commonly be found on the uterus, fallopian tubes, ovaries, bladder, and pelvic cavity walls of endometriosis sufferers. It can also travel to more distant organs. Occasionally, endometriosis causes cysts - fluid or semi-solid sacs - to form on the ovaries. This abnormal tissue can cause a variety of issues in the pelvic cavity, as it is actual, solid tissue that is not meant to be there. Endometriosis can cause severe pelvic pain, abnormal and heavy periods, and infertility, among other things.
Normal uterus vs. Endometriosis
Here's a little something to help put this into perspective.
The definition of Endometriosis, from the National Library of Medicine: "Endometriosis is a female health disorder that occurs when cells from the lining of the womb (uterus) grow in other areas of the body."
The definition of Cancer, from the National Library of Medicine: "Cancer is the uncontrolled growth of abnormal cells in the body."
There is certainly one main difference between the two: Cancer cells are malignant, and will grow uncontrollably until they take over healthy cells. They grow at an unsually rapid rate, which is what causes this disease to be fatal. Endometrial cells are not malignant. They grow at a normal rate, thus the disease does not usually result in death. But look at the similarities. Abnormal cells, cells that don't belong where they are found, that can grow anywhere in the body... on healthy organs... encroaching on the space they need to perform their life-sustaining functions. Malignancy. That's the difference. Not so different after all, it seems... especially when you consider the following:
- Endometriosis can grow anywhere in the body. It is most commonly found on pelvic organs/in the pelvic cavity, but it has also been found in previous surgical scars, on the bladder, ureters and kidneys, on the bowel (intestines, colon, appendix, rectum) and even rarely inside the vagina, inside the bladder, on the skin, in the lungs, on the spine and even in the brain.
 |
| Possible sites of endometriosis |
- Endometriosis can be fatal! Endometrial tissue can cause internal hemorrhaging, undetectable by a CT scan, and result in death. Don't believe me? Read one sufferer's account here.
- An estimated 10% of women are affected by endometriosis. That means that, if you think of yourself and nine female friends, chances are that one of you has endometriosis, whether it has been diagnosed or not.
- On that note, endometriosis often goes undiagnosed because women think they are just having painful periods. Because it can only be confirmed by laporoscopic surgery and biopsy, many women suffer without ever knowing what is causing their pain.
- Though up to 10% of the female population is affected, not everyone suffers from endometriosis to the same degree. In fact, endometriosis is diagnosed in stages (once again similar to cancer) from I (minimal) to IV (severe) based on the extent, location and depth of the abnormal tissue.
- Contrary to what society and some doctors will tell you, extremely painful periods are not normal! If your 'cramps' are so severe that they interfere with your life and ability to function normally, something is wrong. It is not normal to suffer so severely that you can't even get out of bed for several days each month - seek help!
- Endometriomas - ovarian cysts caused by endometriosis which do not usually resolve on their own and require surgery to remove, can range from sizes smaller than a pea to sizes larger than a grapefruit.
- There is no cure. All treatments for endometriosis are aimed at reducing the pain and impact on other internal organs, and sometimes preserving fertility. No known treatment effectively cures endometriosis in all patients. It is a common misconception that pregnancy, menopause, or a hysterectomy will 'cure' endometriosis. They will not. Once the endometrial tissue has begun to grow outside the uterus, removing the uterus or the hormones will not always make it 'disappear'. Many women suffer their entire lives.
- Some of the treatments are brutal. First line treatment includes hormonal birth control, which can have serious side effects for many. Second line treatment is surgery. Other treatments include other hormonal medications with even more serious side effects, which often require other medications to counteract. For some, the treatment is as bad or worse than the disease. This starting to sound like any other disease you've heard of?
- In advanced stages, endometriosis tissue and adhesions can actually cause the abdominal organs to fuse together!
- No one is too young to have endometriosis. Many women begin to experience their symptoms in adolescence (as I did)! In fact, upon my diagnosis (at age 18), my doctor told me that one of the worst cases he had ever seen was in a fifteen year old girl who had only been menstruating for about two years.
- Endometriosis can cause infertility in 30-40% of sufferers even if the fallopian tubes are not compromised. The reason for this is still largely unknown, but it is a very real issue for many women who try... and try... and try... and fail... and fail... and fail... to get pregnant.
- Endometriosis goes hand in hand with any number of other conditions. Pelvic Inflammatory Disease (PID), Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS), sexual dysfunction, as well as other digestive, urinary, bleeding and even psychological conditions are often caused or impacted by endometriosis.
- Endometriosis is, in fact, referred to by endo specialists across the country as "the benign cancer", because it acts so similarly to cancer without being malignant.
 |
| Saying this is what it feels like is an understatement. |
So, dear doctor who felt the need to tell me it was "not necessary to admit endometriosis patients for pain control" in the emergency room tonight, perhaps if you educated yourself a bit on the disease you are supposed to be treating, you might understand that even though it doesn't kill in as huge numbers as cancer, endometriosis can be devastating, your tests can be wrong, and your judgment is harmful. Next time I see you... I will be armed with information. And to you friends and family of someone who has endometriosis... remember the quote: "be kinder and gentler than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle." Your friends and family members may not be fighting cancer, but they are fighting a disease, and it is a brutal disease with brutal treatments. They need you now more than ever. And to my endo sisters... take a moment just to reflect on this sentence... you are not alone. Imagine if, when you walked into the ER for the umpteenth time because your pain was out of control, you were surrounded by other women also suffering from endometriosis. Imagine how supported you would feel. Well, sisters, we may not always be able to be there for each other in person, but we ARE here for each other, in spirit, in support. We know how it feels. You don't have to go it alone. Reach out to those who understand, and arm yourselves with information for those who don't.
Sources:
Sources:
1. National Library of Medicine. Retrieved
August 14, 2013, from http://www.google.com
2. Facts About Endometriosis. Endometriosis.org. Retrieved August 14, 2013, from http://endometriosis.org/resources/articles/facts-about-endometriosis/
3. About Endometriosis. Endometriosis.org. Retrieved August 14, 2013, from http://endometriosis.org/endometriosis/
4. Myths and Misconceptions in Endometriosis. Endometriosis.org. Retrieved August 14, 2013, from http://endometriosis.org/resources/articles/myths/
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