Posts filed under 'Things that suck'
I didn’t tell anyone I was pregnant, because, well, who would, after the last time, right? And as it turned out, being pregnant after a miscarriage is — well, at least for me — worse than the miscarriage itself. And by that, I don’t mean a chemical pregnancy/early miscarriage — those, too, I am familiar with. I’m talking about a post-heartbeat-viewing-ultrasound miscarriage, the one where some people feel so safe that they run out and BUY THINGS OH MY SHIT. NO NO NO. LET ME BE YOUR GUIDE IN SUCH THINGS, NO.
I knew almost immediately, even though I was in denial, avoiding taking a test until well after I’d missed my period — incidentally, just before we left for Las Vegas. Because who DOESN’T want to go on a hedonistic drinking-type vacation and NOT BE ABLE TO DRINK AT ALL? (As it turned out, I didn’t want to drink anyway, because GODDAMN, the desert is dry. I couldn’t even drink COKE. I just wanted WATER.)
I was stressed out and terrified every second of the day. I was feeling myself up to the point of insanity. Honestly, I don’t think I went five minutes without sticking my hands into my bra, desperately feeling for soreness, which, fortunately or unfortunately, was always present. I almost bankrupted us buying pregnancy tests, peeing on them so often that Sam took to opening a package herself and holding them under her crotch, peering into the wrapper for whatever she thought I was looking for. I skipped the digital tests, for they had no real GAUGE of how things were going. Pregnant or not pregnant, there was no in-between on those suckers, when by now, we ALL know you can be a little pregnant.
Were they getting darker? I swore they were, but I couldn’t be sure. I’d pee on one a day, comparing it to the previous day’s, examining every nuance in color, using that, along with my dizziness and boob soreness, as a bizarrely unscientific algorithm to determine how things were going.
I had my first ultrasound at seven weeks on the dot, according to my calculations, which, without going into detail, are close to iron-clad. The ultrasound showed up with a strong heartbeat, but a baby measuring six weeks on the dot. To them, it all looked fine. To me … not so much. It was Pete and Repeat up in here, for that is precisely, and I mean PRECISELY, how things went down the last time. I sobbed while a nurse acted as though I was insane for being upset, and tried to tell me how rare it was for people to have two miscarriages in a row, how I needed to RELAX, how every pregnancy was DIFFERENT. I was waiting for her to give me a reason NOT to punch her in the face, but she never did. Somehow I refrained, and instead, I went to the front desk and made an appointment for a viability ultrasound for exactly one week later.
The next one wasn’t any better. The baby grew, but the heart rate didn’t. Steady, but exactly the same: 115 bpm. The prognosis I was given was 50/50. “It could really go either way,” my doctor said. Obviously, they wanted it higher, but she’d seen it happen before, just like this, so I hung in there.
And then I got sick. Dry heaves at every corner, a craving for nothing but McNuggets and an affinity for Liberte yogurt. I felt … hopeful. Better. More positive! HA HA!
I went back for my third viability ultrasound feeling almost cocky. I was sick as a dog! I was about to faint! I had eaten copious amounts of McNuggets!
No heartbeat. Apparently the baby had died just after my ultrasound the week prior, but my body, in an effort to keep things pumping along, went into crazy overdrive. So basically, every comforting sign I’d ever been given about a “healthy” pregnancy was completely shattered. Visible heartbeat? Statistically worthless until 10 weeks, according to my other doctor who, as it turns out, is a renowned miscarriage expert, so I believe him. Morning sickness a good sign? A total lie, as I learned first-hand.
I really hope that the OTHER myth is that alcohol is bad in pregnancy, because I don’t see how I’m going to get through another one of these without being drunk 24/7. I plan to make mint juleps an active part of my prenatal diet, along with folic acid, because SERIOUSLY.
I mean, really. I am, rationally or irrationally, completely freaked. I’m terrified, of course. I know it happens — more often than people even know, I think — but for some reason, the majority of the stories I got in those first 24 hours were people trying to commiserate with me by sharing stories of how it happened to them/their sister/their sister’s friend/their friend and MY GOD, THE STORIES. Of how this happened, and the lonely horror that ensued! The DECADES of infertility and, in at least one case, DIVORCE. DIVORCE. And I just … well, I feel terrible saying this, but it sent me into a Very Bad Place, because it’s one thing to be able to talk about that stuff with some distance, quite another when you’re in the thick of it.
I say this not to be an unsympathetic asshole, but just to say that if you have a horror story that ended badly, I might not be in the place to hear it, OK? It’s just … where I’m at right now. I know people go through, and survive, much worse, and I know I’m lucky and BELIEVE ME, I am grateful for Sam, BELIEVE ME, OKAY? It’s just that I’m still upset. I’m still scared. And the next person to say, “Well, at least you have ONE healthy child!” gets a dickpunch, because I KNOW, but that doesn’t make this suck any less, I’m sorry, it doesn’t. And recognizing that this sucks doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate Sam. They are two unrelated entities in my mind.
Forgive me, as I am a little sensitive bordering on crazy.
Tomorrow — well, today, Monday, by the time many of you read this — is my second D&C (D&E, really) since January. My parents were already in town for my brother’s MBA graduation in Amherst (congratulations, Justin!), so they were kind enough to make the short trip over to help us out with Sam — and me, as Adam’s traveling for business Tuesday, and I was pretty out of it for a few days afterwards last time.
At what point does this move from sympathetic journey to CIRCUS SIDESHOW!! is what I want to know. I’m thinking three might be the magic number.
Much love to everyone who’s been so kind. Your notes and tweets have meant a lot. We’ll be fine – we always are, so long as the three of us have each other. Oh, and Sunny. God, Sunny, who can forget SUNNY? I’m sure this is causing a great deal of intestinal turmoil that we’ll have to clean up later.
It’s just a bump in the road, I suppose. A sucktastic festering boil of a pothole-y bump, but a bump nonetheless.
Catch you on the flip.
May 15th, 2011
I don’t know about you guys, but I’m sitting here wondering how to keep myself from dancing until the world ends. Or — OR! — waving my drink in the air and getting sick on the floor! In IBIZA!
Clearly I’ve been listening to too much Kiss 108 (the Young People’s radio station here in Boston), because I just can’t stop marveling at the number of songs that imply that we all live to dance and — AND! — harass the DJ until they put our song on. Or maybe that was just Madonna in “Music.” I can’t remember.
Either way, I am shocked and a wee bit embarrassed by my reaction when Jennifer Lopez and/or Britney Spears start singing about getting wasted, rubbing up on dudes and dancing on the floor until their tatas fall off. I just … well, I go all, WON’T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN? And also, last time I checked, Brit-Brit, you were on a family vacation to the most mundane of destinations: the Grand Canyon. Were you in an RV, hmmm? And JENNIFER! Good sweet GRIEF, your kids are THREE. And you’re 42! I’m all for dancing, but maybe curb the clubbing to a reasonable hour?
This sounded a lot less dowdy when it was just in my head. I won’t even bother to discuss my feelings on Flo Rida’s “Club Can’t Handle Me,” where he talks about “zoning out” and somehow making everyone else jellus of his dance moves, then.
Speaking of children (eh?), I talked to a nurse at my doctor’s office today, and reached Maximum Frustration Level when she tried to say that my (totally justified) reaction to something was MY HORMONES. “Oh honey. It’s probably just HORMONES.” I just … you know, there’s really no appropriate time to suggest that it’s a woman’s HORMONES that are making her react a certain way. Especially someone like me, who is basically walking around in a state of PTSD when it comes to health issues (OK ANY ISSUES) after the year I’ve had, WHICH SHE KNOWS ABOUT, HA HA, I DO NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT MY “STRESS HORMONES” WITH YOU, CRAZY LADY.
(Do I sound sane there? Or just hopped up on hormones?)
What killed me, however, was that just before I replied, my center of gravity shifted from Chatty Nice Patient Jonna to Enraged Jonna, and at the precise moment the shift happened, Sam’s eyes got very wide and she warned, “UH OH! UH OH!” like some kind of tsunami detector. Mama’s pissed, and she knows it.
See, nurse? My KID knows when I’m about to get serious up in here, so perhaps you want to save the hormone talk for SOMEONE ELSE. Or actually, no one. No one deserves to be invalidated in such a totally dismissive way, and GOD, WHO HIRED YOU, NURSE?
Meanwhile, have I TOLD you guys that I’m driving a Mercury Grand Marquis, because my tree-smashed car is STILL not repaired? And that it’s been … let’s see, TWENTY SEVEN DAYS?
Do you know what a Grand Marquis looks like? No?
Yessss. Oh, I’m sure it doesn’t seem so bad from that angle, but it’s a boat, and I have yet to park it straight. Oh, and it doesn’t have automatic locks, and it ONLY has a key entry on the driver’s side, which means every time I get in or out, I have to haul EVERYTHING to the driver’s side (including Sam, if we’re in a parking lot), open the door, then unlock all the doors, THEN go back to the other doors. Also: NO CUP HOLDERS. Oh, and the trunk is key-accessible only, which makes grocery shopping more of a workout than is necessary. And! AND! it has NEW JERSEY plates, which is basically the worst thing you can have in Massachusetts. This car could get me KILLED in a MAFIA TURF WAR, for chrissake. I WANT MY HONDA BACK, MY SWEET GOD.
Upside: it’s a smooth ride, and I am shamed to admit I was doing 80 on the Pike today and didn’t even notice, but like the old lady I am, I slowed it down right quick. Like buttah, you Marquis de Minx.
(PS, I was driving to see Nic, one of my longtime internet besties, for the first time. And it was great. Do you know what it’s like to finally meet someone you talk to at LEAST four times a DAY? IT IS AWESOME. Who cares if Sam pooped in her hotel room? OH GOD.)
Have a great Thursday.
*Jennifer Lopez featuring the horribly named PIT BULL. PIT BULL. First of all, the word ‘pit’ is disgusting and reminds me of ACNE BITS. And then BULL? Really? No, I don’t think about the dog, I think about an ACNE-PITTED BULL. GROSS.
April 27th, 2011
So that happened, and by that, I mean a large, terrifying chunk of my next-door neighbor’s tree crashing down on both of our cars in the wee hours of Friday morning.
HAAAAAAA. Yes, seriously! Seriously! A tree crushed our cars! There’s really nothing else to say, because my car is as close to totaled as it can get without actually being totaled, although the jury is still out. We woke up at 5:30 to a too-quiet house and an alarm system that wouldn’t stop beeping, which meant we had no power. Sam, she of the 8 a.m. daily risings, was pretty pissed off that not only was she awake at such an ungodly hour, but there was no Yo Gabba Gabba to take the edge off. It wasn’t until we’d been sitting in the dark for a good fifteen minutes when Adam looked outside and saw this:
I know! It doesn’t look that bad … does it? I mean, it certainly doesn’t look like our cars are DEAD or anything. Adam’s is actually fine — for the love of God, he drove it to work a few hours later — mine, however, is smooshed. Paint gone, hood smashed, windshield in smithereens. The tree removal guy rang my doorbell and sheepishly handed me a PIECE OF MY CAR, asking, “So, ahhh, what should I do with this?” Bits of the engine are sticking out all over the place! The tires are falling off! The fender! IS DANGLING OFF.
What started out as a $5K estimate is rising by the minute, and all I can really say is, thank God for car insurance, AMIRITE?
As a result, I have been tooling around town in a Dodge Caliber, and I hate it. I hate it! It’s tiny and handles terribly and GAH, I hate it! WHERE IS MY HONDA? CAN I GET A HONDA, ANY HONDA? Oh, rental car companies and their hard-on for American made cars. (OH I KNOW. I KNOW. I JUST LIKE MY HONDAS.)
I have to be honest in that I find the whole thing sort of hilarious. Despite the inconvenience and the, ah, smashed car, I just … I don’t really care, honestly. It’s just a car. I’ve got a $300 deductible that will probably be picked up by my neighbor’s home owner’s insurance (it was his tree), and I just … well, it’s just a car, you know? It’s a car, and a memory, and after the year we’ve had, I don’t really give a rip what happens to any inanimate object of mine, and so long as my kid, husband and dog are safe and sound, I am happy. Ergo, I can’t help but find the whole thing so goddamned hilarious, I can’t stop snickering about it. My CAR was smashed by a TREE. What are the fucking CHANCES?
(Apparently pretty high, for when I talked to my insurance agent at 8:30 a.m. that day, I was the *fifth* tree-smashed car that day. Heavy snow and high winds = a bad combination.)
ANYWAY, thanks to all of you, at least in part, Sam is registered for two-day preschool. Which means that I will have six glorious hours each week to while away doing glamorous things like steaming the floors and doing laundry ALL BY MYSELF. It’s very exciting and also sick-inducing, as I know you are fully aware, and ultimately, I think it was the right decision.
See what I just did there? Talked about it like it was Harvard again. GEEENYUS.
Besides all this crap, I’ll tell you two things that are killing me right now, mostly with excitement:
1) Vegas. OMFG, I have never been so ready to go on a vacation in my life. I just want to SLEEP and take BATHS and go to the POOL and READ and I know, those are not things one thinks of in Vegas, but I’m telling you, THAT IS WHAT I AM DOING. I am less excited about leaving my little beanpole, who at her well-baby visit today was declared The Tallest Two Year Old In All The Land, clocking in at 38 inches tall and in the 99th percentile for her age. Her weight is a delightfully proportionate 30 pounds. And while I am dying to sleep and read without interruption, I am so sad to miss her, because she is …
2) God, I love Sam right now, tantrums and all. How can you not be excited about this kid? Come on.
She never makes this face unless the camera is out.
You can’t see it, but she’s also wearing a swim bubble. And has also found my stash of Trader Joe’s wine.
Sunny, too, deserves an award, because this happens, like, a JILLION TIMES A DAY and while she loves getting love, let’s be realistic, the hugging is a bit aggressive.
Hey, have a great Tuesday!
*A Fine Frenzy
April 4th, 2011
Well, I am nothing if not consistent, if by consistent, you mean absent, but the sickopalypse continued, plus I had two work deadlines, and that meant lack of sleep and lack of many things, but sleep! I missed sleep a lot.
What’s crazy is that I cannot figure out WHY I am so pathetically tired on a level I wasn’t before I had Sam. What the EFF, right? I mean, I used to work until well past midnight and then get up for work at 6, but now when I try ANYTHING close to that — getting up at 7 or later, even! — I am DEAD. DEAD. FOR DAYS. WEEKS, EVEN. (And before you mention it, I’m already medicated for my thyroid and other stuff, so it’s not medical, it’s that I’m a wimp. Either that, or my job is much more, um, physical, I guess.)
It’s like the Pussification of Jonna, up close and in the flesh. Just now I whined in Adam’s general direction that he had to set an alarm for 7:15 tomorrow morning because it’ll wake us all up earlier than I’d like. Bear in mind, please, that my preshus offspring usually sleeps until 8, and here I am, most spoiled mother in America. And yet I am exhausted.
I went to the dentist today, and as it turns out, I do NOT have a failed root canal, and Deb was totally right, in that it was referred pain because the tooth is RIGHT under my sinuses, and it was (OMFG) SINUS PAIN. And also, I grind my teeth like a mo’ fo’, and which reminds me, GET THIS: So the dentist is all up in my shit because I’m wearing my teeth down to nubs and then — THEN! — he’s pointing out that my teeth should never touch, which is something I did not know, honestly. Do your teeth touch when you’re just sitting there? Please check and report back. I’ll wait.
Obviously mine do, AND I grind them horribly, but what killed me is that he stared at me as I was doing this and very gravely announced, “Relaxed people do not do this. It’s a stress thing. You really need to relax.”
And I’m like, hey dude, for starters, my day job involves running around after a small person who yells at me constantly, and when she’s not yelling at me, she’s clinging to me like an extra appendage. I never, ever sit by myself. I sit down for five whole seconds, and Sam’s all up in my grill and then Sunny! Sunny has to sit on me, too! I DO NOT SIT ALONE. EVER. I don’t even pee alone. I haven’t peed alone since 2005, because Sunny hasn’t let me pee alone, and now Sam and … oh, man, I forgot what going to the bathroom unwitnessed was even like, because there are FOUR EYEBALLS on me when I pee, OK?
Both of those people need my assistance in some way to poop (shut up, Sunny is people). I wipe someone else’s butt multiple times a day. Then, when I get a reprieve from the small person, I get to go outside and fish dog poopsicles out of the back yard and fold laundry and then when Sam goes to sleep? Then I get to do my other job, and we haven’t even TALKED about the last few months involving death, pregnancy loss and divorce of some of my closest friends, and I’m ALL WHY DON’T YOU RELAX AND HAVE YOUR TEETH NOT TOUCH, BUDDY. WALK A MILE, KNOW WHAT I’M SAYING?
I didn’t say any of that. I laughed awkwardly and agreed, but I just wanted to say it! I wanted to! And I never get all martyrous (kind of not a word), but I do not KNOW, I just think this is what happens when you don’t get enough rest and you find yourself spiraling towards burnout.
(For the record, I have nothing due in the immediate future, so I will recover nicely. PLUS, we are really and truly scheduling a child-free vacation AND this mini-breakdown made me realize I was definitely right in turning down a big project recently, because although I would have secured more regular child care for it, I just … well, I am fried, clearly, can you tell? If not, I can rant more about how HAAARD my privileged little life is, if you want to. I’d want to smack me, if I were you, so if you tell me I’m a spoiled brat, I don’t blame you one whit. First-world whining, FTW!)
Separately, I have five cavities and apparently need TWO cleanings with the hygienist to get shit done in there, and when I defensively mewled, “But I brush! I FLOSS!” he simply responded, “Yes, everyone says they brush, but …” and then he just trailed off.
Do you guys … is he implying that I DO NOT BRUSH MY TEETH?
(I do. I swear I do.)
Back later with less teeth and a lot less whining.
March 1st, 2011
For those of you who asked for photos of the snow, I give you my house, which is virtually unrecognizable compared to its normal form. Like, from this photo, you cannot even tell what it normally LOOKS LIKE. I’m not worried about anyone appearing on my doorstep, because GOOD LUCK FIGURING OUT WHICH ONE IS MINE IN THE DRIFTS. The whole neighborhood looks THE SAME. Entire trees are buried! My CAR is in there somewhere! (Can you see the very wee tippy top of my car? I DRIVE AN SUV. THE SUV IS TOO SHORT FOR THE DRIFTS.)
I got out today, and it changed my life, dudes. I went to a friend’s house with other friends, and I laughed and I had conversations and my kid played with toys that weren’t hers, and I came back and did something other than lie about on the couch like a bump on a pickle and THIS. This is living, people. Putting on real pants and drinking coffee made by someone else’s coffee pot and HOO BOY, that’s the high life, right there.
It’s really a shame we’re getting more snow on Saturday, then.
I mean, seriously.
Meanwhile, the other morning, Adam accosted me just out of bed and was all, “You peed in the middle of the night and it SMELLED TERRIBLE. I had to GET UP AND FLUSH THE TOILET! It WOKE ME UP!”
Um, okay, several things: 1) I did not pee. No one did. 2) When was the last time someone PEED in the NEXT ROOM and woke someone up with the stench? OMFG. 3) His statement was immediately followed by, “WAIT, I STILL SMELL IT. DID YOU JUST PEE AGAIN?”
The culprit? The chicken stock I had simmering all night in the crock pot, which apparently smells like foul pee. Looking forward to making rice pilaf with it! Viva la urine rice!
Separately, and apropos of LITERALLY nothing, we’re in the throes of researching our trip to the Caribbean (because after the January we had, OH YES) without our precious offspring (thank you, parents!) and I almost had a panic attack looking at the pictures of scuba diving that popped up in a travel website. Mind you, I have always thought that scuba diving would totally be on my life list if I had one, but here we are five or six trips to the Caribbean in, and I’ve never gone, thinking, oh, next time! I’ll get certified first and go next time! And then today happened and I saw a photo of dolphins underwater, and I realized that right then and there, if something large and dolphin-like, no matter how friendly, came towards me underwater, I would do one of two things: a) die, right then and there; b) lose utter control of my bowels.
I’m going with Option B, and then the poop would attract OTHER wildlife, and then I would die anyway, because I would be eaten.
Thus, it is declared: I will never go scuba diving and I am perfectly okay with this. For God’s sake, I have a FEAR of LARGE THINGS underwater, AND I am a little claustrophobic and NO. NO.
I will also never, ever venture into space, no matter how accessible and affordable it becomes. I don’t care if Richard Branson himeffingSELF wants to fly me up in a private rendezvous with Alexander Skarsgard, Philip Seymour Hoffman (what?) and TIM EFFING RIGGINS (yes, I know he’s fictional, STOPIT). I AM NOT GOING INTO SPACE.
And finally, a few photos of Sam that are KILLING ME. This is actually the third and fourth in a series of her in the same outfit, same place in the house. And yet, things go horribly awry between photo three:
And photo four:
Since these photos were taken long enough ago that I have absolutely no idea what happened, or WHY I kept snapping instead of stepping in, I’m totally blaming Elmo, lying there all innocent-like. That little red bastard stuck his foot out, I KNOW he did.
*Steve Winwood. Whatever, don’t mock me, it was a great album.
February 3rd, 2011
So, um, that happened. And by that, for those of you who may have missed it, I mean the death of Adam’s beloved grandfather, my miscarriage at ten weeks, a D&C and a funeral, all within a 48-hour period. Oh wait, I’m sorry, the death and the miscarriage actually happened the same day. My bad.
Adam’s grandpa’s death was somewhat of a surprise — well, as much as one can be surprised by the death of a grandparent in his eighties who has been in assisted living for several years. And yet, to a degree, it was a surprise. It happened quickly — a broken bone led to a certain medication that led to pneumonia, which was a somewhat familiar pattern he’d pulled out of before, but I suppose this time it wasn’t meant to be. Or rather, it was meant to be, just not as we’d hoped, although it ended as we always knew it would, someday.
Coming with this is the usual mix of regret and sorrow — regret that more effort wasn’t made to spend time at the home while we could; sorrow that things won’t ever be exactly as they were, and for Adam, the loss of the final grandparent. (This is an unfamiliar feeling to me, as the majority of mine were dead and/or certifiably senile before I was old enough to understand.)
These things are always complicated.
The day before he died, we’d gone to see him to say goodbye, which was wrenching, as he wasn’t who we remembered, thanks to a drug-induced coma. I will not — in fact, I refuse — choose to remember him that way, although I hope he heard us. I am fairly certain that he did, in fact, and if he didn’t, that he hears us now.
We came home, watched the Patriots lose, hosted his brother for a quick visit and dinner, (he’d flown in to say his own goodbyes), I hit the bathroom and …
Well, there was spotting. I called the office, scheduled an ultrasound for the next morning and tried to forget about it.
The phone rang at 7:30 a.m. with the call that Grandpa had passed. By 11 a.m., I was in the stirrups as a poor ultrasound technician tried in vain to find a heartbeat on a baby that was supposed to be in its 10th week. By noon, I was sobbing in a strange doctor’s office as he said things were moving quickly (and not in a good way), and that he was afraid I’d end up in the ER if I didn’t schedule a D&C for the next morning.
We’re okay — really, we are. It’s hard not to almost chuckle at the ridiculousness of these events happening within hours of each other, because, well, seriously.
These are things I can live with. I can live without Adam’s grandfather, as much as I don’t want to. I knew someday we’d have to. We can try for another baby–we will try for another baby, as we now know, without a doubt, that we want one. We had one, and now we don’t. It happens.
I can live with that.
I have lived with that, for almost a week now. Despite everything, I have not fallen apart. I have made dinner, slept late, taken naps, laughed at my kid, taken the dog for walks, thought about making plans with friends and have, slowly, returned to the land of the living.
I can do that. I will do that. I love to do that. I can live with these losses, for they are part of life. To some degree, they are expected.
What is killing me, and what is impossible to talk about, but what I have to talk about, because it is eating at me from the inside, is the idea that things will get worse. I can live with what’s happened, I am almost proud of surviving with what’s happened without being broken, but what I cannot shake is the idea that there is some nefarious game show host cackling at an audience of twisted sadists, watching us on the Jumbotron, waiting for just the right moment to shout, “Shall we tell them what’s behind CURTAIN NUMBER THREE?” while the audience erupts in sickening jeers.
Because I’ll tell you: That would break me. And it’s precisely that that keeps me up at night. I lay there, watching Sam on the monitor late into the evening, long after I know she’s safe in bed. I listen to Adam’s soft breathing as he sleeps, terrified of losing the two people who are exactly the reasons I was so grateful through all of this.
For that, I am afraid. For that, and only that, I am not entirely okay.
Beyond that, there were so many things about this situation that were positive.
The doctor who performed my surgery took the time to seek out my husband to tell him how sorry he was for the loss of his grandfather, despite having met me for all of ten minutes the day prior. He was gentle, compassionate and tremendously kind.
And oh, you guys. My husband. It would be almost trite to list out the things he did for me last week, but I will say that I have always known I made a wise choice in selecting my life partner, but that when shit’s really down, he steps up in a way that makes the fantasy man in romantic comedies look like some kind of chump.
I am so, so lucky.
I can’t tell you how I felt every time I got one of your messages, cards, emails, flowers and ridiculous amount of food. Well, okay, actually, I can: I felt loved and touched and tremendously uplifted. Strangers took the time to talk to me about their experiences, and for the love of God, I got emails from some of your MOTHERS and AUNTS — people who know me only because, in their words, I was nice to their daughter on the Internet once. I’m not kidding. Friends took my kid, no questions asked, when I had to rush off to surgery a few hours before I was originally scheduled. My sister drove three hours in a blizzard to get to us. People came by with ready-made dinners and desserts and the Food Lush and Style Lush crew sent enough sweets for a small army of mourners, which was a good thing, as we had said small army staying in our guest rooms.
Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. It was one of the most special things to ever happen to me, and I am not exaggerating, even in the slightest.
I will remember it always.
*Death Cab for Cutie
January 23rd, 2011