Four years later…

It’s hard to believe it has been four years since my phone rang with the last news on earth that I ever wanted to hear.  The irony is that I was almost not home to get the call. I was on the way to the gym after dropping Kelsey off at leikskola (Icelandic preschool) and realized that I had left my sneakers at home. I had decided that mom’s stay in the hospital was a wake-up call of sorts, and a good motivator to get in better shape.  I headed back home and was inside grabbing them when the phone rang.

I answered to hear my aunt's shaky voice.  She called let to me know that mom had died 19 minutes earlier.  I was stunned beyond belief, and everything stopped for a few minutes until I could come to grips with events enough to call Peter, get him home, and try to figure something out from 3,000 miles away from home.  Well, 3,000 from mom's home, and where I would need to head ASAP.

The one thing that stopped almost immediately was the blog.  Not just a few minutes, days, or weeks, but months before I started writing again.  I know some people  are able to continue to blog through their pain, but that was not me.  I not only was not sure what to say, but had little or no desire to write one word.  I had eventually intended on back-posting something, but never made my way around to it, figuring avoidance was a good tried and true method, why do anything else?  

To be brutally honest, it was not just my mom's death that quieted my inner voice.  It was the double (or triple?) whammy of Mom dying, learning two days later that I was pregnant, and having the pregnancy officially declared a miscarriage 5 days after Christmas.  To say it was a rough month is probably an understatement.

I was so busy the first few days that I had little time to grieve.  We had to get ourselves to the States immediately, and begin making plans.  I was executrix of the estate, and had a job that I had not foreseen needing completion for another 30 plus years.  Within a day of arrival, the funeral was planned, and a lawyer hired.  A day later I realized I was "late", and took a test.  Much to my shock, it was positive.  While we very much wanted a third child, the timing was nothing, if not, awful.

I was almost numb until the funeral was over, and others left or went back to their normal routine.  The quiet, the eeriness of knowing I had to personally wade through every sheet of paper in mom's house, and the realization she would never walk through the door again hit me hard.  Peter and the girls stayed as long as they could, but he had to get back to work, they needed a normal schedule, and I had to get to work, pronto.

There were going to be several more trips back to Pennsylvania, quite obviously, before I could finish everything, but I did what I could to keep busy.  I opened and closed bank accounts, met with the attorney and paralegal several times, returned new, but unworn items, began selling clothes I couldn't look at (outfits I had bought mom), gave 15 coats to my aunt for charity, and Freecycled the heck out of whatever I did not envision selling at an estate sale or anything that we would need.  

I think there was nothing sadder than returning a new pair of boots, clearly purchased on a happy shopping trip, in the middle of the Christmas shopping season.  I had to fight tears back to explain why I had no receipt, but, please, could Nordstrom just honor its policy and take the boots back?  I had no clue how much money would be left to pay estate bills, or worse, bills that had yet to come in, whether medical expenses or simply things she had purchased, but not paid for, prior to her falling ill.  The hospital bill was covered by her insurance, but it made me ill to look at the charges, especially considering that I ended up very close to suing for malpractice for all of the tests they didn't do in time.

I returned to Iceland after two and a half weeks of getting her affairs in order.   My aunt agreed to check on things until I could return, and the paralegal for the attorney had everything under control.  I think it was at that point that I really lost it.

It was an awful flight home due to extremely high winds and turbulence, by far the worst on Icelandair (not the airline's fault), and totally at the wrong time for me.  We had two aborted landing attempts prior to the pilots deciding to head to Egilstadir, a city on the eastern side of the island.  We stayed there for a few hours, and returned to Keflavik when the winds died down enough for the plane to land safely. 

I got to our house in Reykjavik, and I finished losing it.  The one person I desperately wanted to call could not answer the phone.  I was supposed to be thrilled to be pregnant, and instead was devastated as I could not grieve and be happy at the same time.  Additionally, I was extremely sick.  It began while I was still in Pennsylvania, but after Pete and the girls had returned to Iceland.  It was a combination of pregnancy-related nausea, grief, anxiety, and, once back in Reykjavik,  a lack of sleep.  I couldn't eat, and sleep was a complete mystery.  I had never understood insomnia before that time in my life. 

Sleep eluded me completely once I was back.  I don't know if the 22 hours of darkness contributed to it, or it was simply my body's way of reacting to everything.  I tried OTC sleeping pills, and they made the situation worse. Melatonin was by prescription only in Iceland, and I couldn't get an appointment at the base until the first week of January.  Ironically, I had no need for it by that point.

I got up each day, whether I had two hours of sleep (because my body finally just gave up and fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion) or none.  I took the girls to school, cried on the couch at home during the day, picked them up, and tried desperately to be there for them.  I managed to pull through, and even created a Christmas for them.  The worst part?  Putting out the gifts mom had shipped early, knowing the FPO might take a while.

Despite everything, I tried to look at the bright side.  The pregnancy.   I was sick early, and generally, that meant a healthy pregnancy.  We decided to announce the impending birth early, so as to brighten everyone's spirits, hopefully my own included.  Never mind my rule about waiting until the 3rd month, especially since I had already experienced two miscarriages at this point.  

Two days later we had our first, and second-to-last, doctor's appointment.  Due to the difficulties I had with both Caitlin and Kelsey, I was able to see  a specialist.  As is standard, she performed a sonogram to confirm the pregnancy.  This time, it was the opposite.  There was only a faint heartbeat, and the growth was not on track.  She had blood work done, scheduled me for an appointment two days later, and her assistant discussed my 'options' with me.  While not popular in Iceland, I requested a DNC, should the pregnancy not be viable.

I immediately was under fire.  Why?  Why would I choose that?  Why not let things go naturally?  If nothing else, I was insistent upon immediate testing, but I also had not slept, eaten (much, if anything), nor really felt anything for the past month.   Nothing sounded better than being forced to go to sleep, despite the awful circumstances.  More to the point, I did not need any more pain, and certainly not dragged over several days.

Friday rolled around, and the sonogram pointed out the obvious, as had the blood work.   The pregnancy was over, and the only decision to be made was what to do next.  I chose the DNC, and thankfully, the procedure was quick and painless, from a physical perspective.  It was uncomfortable when they forgot to ex-tubate until I was wide awake, but at least everything was over, and there were no obvious issues.

We received the results in the mail several weeks later.  Like my previous two miscarriages, this pregnancy was not meant to be.  A chromosomal abnormality not compatible with life had occurred, and there was no way the baby would have made it to birth.  It was a relief in some respects knowing that nothing I had done (or not done) had contributed, especially the stress brought on by the grief.

And, with that, you have my life  from 10:15 a.m. on the 29th of November 2005 until the next time I booted up the computer, and actually felt like typing a blog posting.  I wasn't 100% myself, but had begun to come back from the brink, and was able to plan future trips to the States, and try to work out a plan for everything that still needed doing.  The days were getting longer, I thought up reasons to leave the house (not stay in), and I began to look ahead and realize there might be good times in the future.

All that being said, if I could turn back the clock, I would do it in a heartbeat.  I would be on the phone with the hospital right now, begging them to check my mom.  I would plead with them to have a pulmonologist come in and test her for the clot we all knew was there, and if nothing else, perform emergency surgery.  I could turn it back further and fly back to make sure it was all done, even though she repeatedly told me not to, as she "would by home by Wednesday."

Instead, I am sitting here, laptop in hand, thinking about after four years, how happy I am that there is finally a stone in place.  My one omission during the first year was a lack of concern for a gravestone. Finally, it is complete, in its proper location, and includes pots molded into the marble of the base for plantings.  It is a beautiful stone, artfully carved, but necessary much too soon.  I am thinking, perhaps, irises?

You know that scene in Parenthood

when Steve Martin gently asks his daughter, "Do you feel like you want to throw up?" and she replies, "Okay!" and her head spins around, covering the room in vomit?  Put Peter in place of Steve, and Kelsey for (um, little girl who also starred in Curly Sue & whose name completely escapes me) his daughter, and move the action to our foyer.  To think we thought yesterday that Kelsey was on the mend…

She had a bit of a cold earlier in the week, and stayed home from school on Wednesday.  I tried to also keep her home yesterday, but she was perky as could be, and adamant about attending school.  She likes it (an alien concept for me).  She slept in a bit, went to school, and all was fine.  Well, until this morning when I felt someone hovering over me and woke up to her mumbling that her stomach hurt in a rather nondescript way (this could mean anything from a small amount of gas to being ready to pass out from pain).  We went downstairs, Peter harangued her a bit about her outfit, and without further ado, she let him (well, the foyer) have it.

Nothing like spending your 'sleeping in' time (Pete was off today, and told me to sleep in ….HA!) cleaning a cold, hard ceramic tile on your hands and knees.  Though I recall being that sick as a kid, and there isn't much else that causes that unique type of discomfort.  Remembering how many times my mom probably cleaned up worse (and in the middle of the night),  promptly grounded me and kept that gag reflex at bay.  I tucked her into the couch and was relieved to see that she was too sick to go to school, but not too sick to watch TV.  Now I know you are thinking, but what about that trip we are supposed to take oh, tomorrow?

We still plan on leaving in the late morning, however, the Basket Brigade plans are on hold/being modified.  In all likelihood, Cait and Peter will deliver the goods, but we will not be wrangling.  Kelsey is still feverish, and while a few hours resting in the car is fine, I don't want her getting sicker (or anyone else ill) at the Brigade.  So, we will make up for our absence by increasing our donation.  I wish it weren't the case, but better that than we make an emergency exit , and delay our departure time even more.

Where are we going?  It has probably completely slipped my mind to mention much about the trip, because I have done such a poor job of planning, and I would really like to ignore that fact.  We are SO last minute on this vacation, but did manage to get a few good deals, including a heavily discounted Disney entrance and free Legoland tickets (thank you, thank you, Auntie Lisa!!).  We are making a quick tour of Southern California, to include San Diego (Legoland! The zoo!), Anaheim (Disneyland!), and the general Los Angeles area (Hollywood! A boardwalk/beach! An amazing Thanksgiving dinner!).  We also hope to catch up with a friend or two while on the way back home, and perhaps even stop at a winery (I know, perhaps my rear end…).

With all that's going on, I still managed to remember that Little Guy is 21 months old today.  Probably soon we will just mention the years (I have said that before, haven't I?), but given how much more of a Little Guy he has become, I feel I should write something (God knows, the journal isn't getting much of a workout these days).  I can never remember to write down all of his words, but here is a smattering (hopefully some new):  da-da (truck), choo-choo, please, thank you (which he says without prompting), hello (sounds like HEH-whoa?), Lemmeesee, What's that, who's that, ahfoo (airplane), bad cat, phone (phone), and the list goes on.

He has a newly discovered love of trucks and trains, and runs them up and down the couch, the stairs, the shoe rack, the car seat, and if he can't find the one he wants, he will make one.  He has made trains (and highways) out of boxes and puzzle cubes.  He pushes them into shape and around the room with the appropriate choo-choo noise.  Who needs a train table when you have an extremely active imagination?  Though I can't say we aren't toying with the notion, as I have a feeling it would get a lot of use.

He seems to have outgrown the tiny bit of "terrible twos" he had a few weeks ago which involved a brief pacifier stealing and hitting phase.  We certainly understood the pacifier part (he would never take one, didn't know what it was, and had a sudden intense interest), but had to briefly avoid the gym daycare til we were sure the hitting bit had passed.  We nipped it in the bud quickly, and thankfully, smooth sailing for the time being (I won't say never again…).  There was also a touch of biting, but thankfully (?), he saved that one for me, and me alone. 

Today was a bit nutty and exciting*, and didn't remember to get a snapshot until he was asleep.  So, here we have LG conked out when he was almost 21 hours old, and now as he is 21 months old.  A wee bit of a difference, wouldn't you say?

*Cait was pulled aside after choir (at the church) tonight, and asked to do the lead in the church Christmas play.

*Spoiler Alert*

from Peter Dinoia, new comedic genius.  I know, I know, it is not normally what one pegs as his forte. Staging, securing the perimeter, stopping art thieves in their tracks, and voluntarily traipsing around the world at a moment's notice?  Yes, those would be the attributes that might come to mind.

Now, Pete can tell a joke, and can do quite a few mean impressions, from Archie Bunker ("Geez, Edith, huh?") to the Swedish Chef (Orsky-Borsky & such).  However, actually creating the comedy from scratch isn't necessarily his strong point.  Until last night.  In a fit of overwhelming creativity, Peter created a sketch, if you will, of one of my favorite shows (this point needs to be stressed), and I still cannot get through it without laughing.  Apparently, neither can anyone else, as all of his Facebook reviews have been stellar.

Yes, this all started on Facebook, what doesn't these days?  An urgent status update from a friend of ours mentioned that her television died while she was watching the most recent episode of House.  I immediately commented and sympathized with "Ms. B.", as I, too, am quite a fan.  I can't quite put my finger on it, whether it is House himself (ooh, that sexy stubble), his obvious medical genius, or simply that I am still so excited that Puck managed to resurrect himself to become head of oncology (and still look as, um, fit as he did when jumping around in A Midsummer's Night Dream).  Guess the acting thing really was a stage. 

Before I continue, I should note that this may fall completely flat if you:

• never watch House and have no clue what I am talking about
• have only watched one episode (best if you have seen several)
• hate the show (though frankly, you may hate it because you agree with the synopsis)
• are a much, much better person than I am and don't waste time on useless television shows that don't really do anything but mildly entertain you for 42 minutes on a weekly basis

On the other hand, if you watch it religiously like my pathetic self does, then this might be for you.  It is Peter's take on the most recent episode of House, most of which was missed by our friend.  

Without further ado, Peter's version of "Teamwork":

The patient is overcome with some mysterious ailment in the first scene. Then House and his team argue over the initial diagnosis and treatment. House orders a bunch of tests. During the tests the patient gets sicker. Then there is some sexual banter between House and Cuddy that should get House fired. They correctly diagnose and treat the problem. The patient temporarily gets better then goes into cardiac arrest. They then realize that the first diagnosis is completely wrong and determine the real cause and prescribe new a treatment. House says a bunch of stuff to Wilson that would make a normal person never talk to House again never mind stay his best friend. Second Diagnosis turns out to be completely wrong and they tell the patient that he is terminal. Then as the patient is about to flatline House has an epiphany and figures out what is actually wrong and prescribes a last minute miracle solution. Patient lives.

Actually, I think that is every episode…

Now who doesn't need a laugh like that once in a while?  Thanks, Beaker!

I’m drawing a ….

blank.  Seriously, I have start a post, quit halfway through, start another one, drop that.  I am not sure whether I am tired beyond belief (see, going to bed early is bad for me!), or stressed because I am blatantly ignoring the vacation that I am supposed to be planning.

We are supposed to leave for a week long journey to Southern California on Saturday.  We are helping out with the TriValley Basket Brigade, then packing it up and heading to our starting point of San Diego.  We managed to wrangle not only free tickets to Legoland (thank you, thank you, Auntie Lisa!), but also a very good deal for Disneyland. One day each, but I think that will more than suffice, and we won't wear ourselves out and miss out on the rest of the area.

Having never be

Kelsey and her sisters

As of last month, Kelsey has 10 new sisters.  They meet twice a month in the multi-purpose room clad in brown skorts, sky-blue shirts, and vests adorned with the longest troop number on the planet.  No beanies, but most of them also have the cream colored snap tie around the collar.  They are Brownies, and according to the Girl Scout Law, they are sisters.

All Boy

I never liked pegging my kids as one type or another.  Neither girl could be described as a tomboy, and while they have both had brief infatuations with the color pink, I would not say either one was overly girly.  They are happy to play outside in dirt, sand, puddles, glaciers, and can make amazing playsets from sticks and stone.  When they were younger, play included both trucks and trains, and G.I. Joe (the D.S. Special Agent version) still hangs out in Kelsey's room, though he usually wears a pink skirt and has long since lost his agent accoutrement (don't tell Pete).

Then Nicholas came along, and it was pretty much the same deal:  one day he was wearing a pink ballet skirt, the next he wanted a Spiderman lunchbox and notebook (he grabbed the last two items during back to school shopping, as he felt left out).  Blocks one day, Joe in his purple parachute pants the next.  He seemed to go back and forth with ease, and could live with or without any type of toy.  Then something clicked inside him…

The day before Peter left for UNGA, Nicholas started screaming "Dada" whenever he saw Peter's car.  I assumed he meant Peter, however, as we later figured out, he was actually referring to the car.  It was quite easy to follow once he started shouting and pointing to everything from SUVs to Safeway trucks.

A week or so after Pete got back, we were relaxing in the kids section of Barnes & Noble.  Cait was busy spending her college money on books that were read before we left the store, Peter was off reading Latin, Kelsey was browsing, and I decided to let Nicholas play with the trains.  Well, that was it. 

"Choo-choo, choo-choo!" he shouted. 

Again, and again, and again.  Can you sense where this is heading?  He could not get enough of the brightly colored trains, or their table.  Up and down, all around, he pushed, pulled, and banged the trains together. While I could eventually pull him away, you could almost see the pain in his eyes.  I must say, not terribly different from the expression on Caitlin's face when she is forced to put away the book at dinner, and (horrors) have a conversation with her family at the dinner table.  However, I don't remember either of the girls having such a strong association with a particular type of toy at that age (insert reminder here, Shannon). 

Since then he has trains and he has dadas.  He talks about them incessantly, points them out everywhere, and simply can't get enough. I started to wonder if we should get him a train set (and the accompanying table due to our lack of non-carpeted flooring).  I even caved, against my better judgment, and bought him a tiny little Thomas the Tank Engine.  Not because it was a particular brand, simply because he recognized it as a train.

We wandered out of the store, ambled up the street, and headed to the car.  He held the train and talked to it the entire ride home, and I wondered if I had done the right thing.  Was I just encouraging the very consumerism we really want to avoid?  Was I complicating things more by getting this toy? He is young, but scary how fast they learn.

The fascination continued, but as I learned, it was not all about the toy, but became more about the machine.  He managed to find a video at Target while I was shopping for another child, I bought it (yes, I know, you sense a trend…), and he has watched it several times (insert wordy-dird about what a bad parent I am here).  It is some sort of Christmas/snow/Thomas (and other characters) story.  He is in love with train part.  Could probably watch it for hours if you let him.

Then he solved the problem for me.  He didn't have a train to play with while watching it, (the Thomas choo-choo has disappeared), so he made his own.  He took 4 boxes that were in the family room, and lined them up.  He covered them with a blanket, and said, "Choo-choo"!  Later while he was playing in the bedroom with his box of toys (random puzzles and legos), he lined up the pieces of a block puzzle and said, "choo-choo!"

No tracks, no trains, no signs, or fake trees.  Perfectly happy simply using what he has to create his own train and station.  It looks nothing like the Island of Sodor or wherever it is Thomas lives, but it makes him just as happy.  Very similar to when I thought he might like a clubhouse, and then he and Cait built one from two overstuffed kiddie chairs and a blanket.  Who am I to mess with perfection?

Halloween 2009

or because I know the grandparents are chomping at the bit for these photos.  Well, wait, we assume the grandparents are waiting with baited breath, because the Little Guy was just stinkin' cute tonight. 

I know I shouldn't say that, but he just didn't cease to amaze me.  He is all over this Halloween thing!  From dressing up to running (not walking) up the steps of each house (both the stroller and Ergo were out of the question), to saying thank you and bye-bye to almost every treat giver.  He gave an occasional stab at "Trick or treat," but that was a bit more difficult.

  The girls had a great time, and Kelsey and her one friend loved listening to Nicholas.  I realize I need to enjoy it while it lasts, so "Isn't he cute?!" in girlie squeals was music to my ears.   Of course, the fact that he was he thought it was trick or trade (he would take a piece of candy and then offer the person one of his own) was simply adorable. 

Other than the high-pitched voices, it was fairly tame trick or treating this year, as we went with other folks and didn't try to overdo it. We also opted to leave Caitlin to her own devices (sort of).  She went trick or treating with a neighborhood friend, and came home two hours later with a nightmarish blister on her foot (translation: lots o' loot).  The only issue?  We figured out she threw away candy that she decided she didn't like.

I know we are trying to eat better, and woe to the non-organic produce that touches my lips (most of the time), but really, Halloween is once a year.  NO ONE throws away a Milk Dud in this house (that could be mine), and I know Peter will have words with her about that Snickers bar.  Seriously, I have never seen a child do that before.  Whatever, she's happy, we are happy (and on a sugar high), and all's well that ends well, right?

Last, but certainly not least, if you think you recognize a certain little monkey, you are correct.  The costume Nicholas is wearing was made over (GULP) 11 years ago for his (very) big sister, Caitlin.  You can't see it in the photo, but there is a large stuffed tail, and I have to say, it made an excellent leash tonight, as this little guy is just too fast.  Even after we arrived at home to have a small dessert party, he continued to run circles around all of us. If we could harness his energy, PG&E would be paying us…

Here's hoping everyone had a happy, fun, and safe Halloween!