I've been a busy little bee. I got caught the last week or so making a video CD of digital pics for my folks back in the States. I had lots of problems with creating the CD. I won't go into detail, but it was time-consuming.
Having solved the problem yesterday, I managed to get the first CD burned, and was working on another, when I got a phone call from my mom.
It was one of THOSE phone calls.
The kind you typically get late at night, that pull you out of sweet la-la land to face terrible news.
Usually news of death.
Mine was pretty much like one of those. Almost, but not quite. I got my phone call in the middle of the day, and I could tell from my mom's voice that not all was well on the Midwestern front.
Two possibilities ran through my head. Is it Dad or Grandma? over and over the question revolved in the three-second silence between my question, "What's wrong?" and my mom's answer:
"It's Grandma."
Shit. Grandpa died a little over a year ago, and Grandma had been doing really well. She was happy, involved, had friends all over her assisted living community. She didn't need assistance, but she was there because Grandpa had been.
But she is also 91 years old. A spry 91, at that.
Turns out, Grandma's brain is bleeding, deep inside, near the medulla, the part that regulates all life functions. Grandma is aware, so far, but can't speak. Mom wasn't sure if she was really congnitive. She'd answered my mom's questions, but answered yes to every single one, for example. The doctor said operating at her age, so deep inside, so close to such a vital area of the brain, is simply too dangerous, and he advises against it.
He said it's likely she will lapse into a coma, as the tissue in her skull swells, but that she may wake out of it. If she does, she will never be the same Grandma we know and love. She will be just as she is right now. There is also the likelihood that her life functions eventually will be affected, and her body will shut down.
Grandma has a living will, so will not be put on life support.
My husband questioned whether she REALLY wants to be put on life support, now that the time is so close. Who knows? How can we know, if she isn't truly coginitive? But what's the alternative? To put her on life support, at age 91, until she's what? 105? 110? Whenever the rest of her body finally poops out? The rest of her was really going strong.
Naturally, I'm upset. I'm leaving Germany tomorrow at noon, and will arrive in Chicago around
2 pm CDT. My son is accompanying me, and my husband is staying home. His bosses at work won't give him the time off. He has 20 days of vacation due him, and they made a fuss that he asked for a half-day on Monday to run the car through inspection. They really made a fuss when he just asked for Friday off to drive me and our son to the airport. The arschlöcher.
I spent the day packing and cleaning the house (makes less work for me when I get back). I managed to throw in binders of sheet music, which are incredibly heavy, as a tangible prayer that we move to the States next year. The music would just add to the weight of boxes shipped stateside when the times comes. So why not bring them back while I can?
I'm feeling numb right now. I hope the sensation lasts for the next 38 hours. Let me get home and get a full night's rest, before I start feeling again.
I don't want my Gram to die.
Shit. I'm gonna cry again.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Thursday, October 20, 2005
I SEE IT IN MY CRYSTAL BALL...
When I was in my twenties, a co-worker told me she had gone to a psychic. Naturally, I was interested. I’d been to a few before. A couple who seemed legitimate. A few others who seemed like quacks. But this one, my friend told me, was different.
“She’s really good. I totally believe her.”
“Good,” I said. As fascinated as I am, I always take things like this with a grain of salt.
“She mentioned you by name,” my friend continued.
That really got my attention. “What? My name?”
My friend nodded. “Yeah. She said, ‘Do you know someone named Silver?’ I said yeah. She said, ‘Tell her to be careful with her eyes.’”
I hesitated. “My eyes?” My eyes have never given me trouble, except that I wear glasses—and at the time, I had to have my prescription changed frequently because they kept getting worse. Not unusual, my doctor had told me. It would level out as I got older. Which was true. “How do you know she meant me?”
“You’re the only Silver I know.”
“Huh.”
“She also said, ‘Tell her to be very careful driving.’”
“No way. Really?”
“Yeah. I think she gave me more information about you than she did about me.”
Somehow, I felt guilty about that. “Sorry.”
“Well, it wasn’t so bad. I think she’s really good. I’m going to go again.”
Some time had passed--two or three weeks, maybe—and I’d forgotten all about the psychic lady my friend had visited. It was early on a Saturday evening, and I was driving to a local pizza place to pick up a slice for dinner. We lived out in the country, and the roads were long and straight, and the speed limit was a typical 55 mph. and I tended to drive with a lead foot.
About a quarter mile ahead of me, there was another car. I saw it hit its brake lights briefly and then move on. As I approached the spot where the car had slowed down, I hit the brakes, hard. Right there, almost in the middle of the road, stood a small toddler boy. His parents were nowhere in sight. I pulled over, got out of the car, and walked up to him.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Silver. Where are your mommy and daddy?”
The little boy pointed toward the house, set back about 100 feet from the road.
“Well, let’s go find them, okay?” I took him by the hand and he lead me to the side door. I rang the doorbell, and the child ran inside. I told the mother where I’d found her son, and that if I or another driver hadn’t been paying attention, he could have gotten killed.
The words frightened me, probably as much as they frightened the mother. My god. I could have killed this child on my way to get a freaking slice of pizza. I could have taken a life, and permanently altered the lives of this family, my family—and myself. How could I live with such a thing hanging over my head like that?
The woman thanked me, and I walked back to my car. My friend’s message rang in my ears again. “She said to be very careful driving.”
Shortly after that, my friend went to the psychic again, and returned with another message for me. “She said to tell you to be careful with her eyes.”
“Again? Why does she keep mentioning me?”
My friend just looked at me. “I think you should go, so you can talk to her personally.”
Remembering the warning about driving, I took down the details and made an appointment.
I went, and it was interesting. She offers to record each session, so I brought a tape with me. I don’t remember what she told me, except that she saw a lot of paper around me. She asked if I was a student. I wasn’t. But I told her I was in publishing and did a lot of copy editing. And I told her I had just started writing again. “Keep doing it,” she said to me. She was very emphatic about it. “Keep writing and start showing it to people.”
Well, if you check out my fiction from that time, you’ll see it isn’t great. It wasn’t until a couple years ago that I finally started showing people my work. And writing more regularly. My short stories kept getting longer, so last year I decided to try writing a book. I have yet to finish one, but I’ve got tons of ideas. That and Blogit keep me very busy. Very preoccupied.
She said some other things, which I don’t remember very clearly. The tape, I think, is long gone. I’d tossed it in my desk drawer at home, intending to listen again after I’d gotten some distance from it. But then I got married and moved away, and I think my mom threw the tape in the trash, not knowing what it was.
The psychic did, however, mention an aunt by name and suggested she start taking aspirin regularly to fend off an impending stroke or something. And she told me to be careful about my eyes.
Again, with my eyes. Just what was up with that???
After I got married, I got pregnant right away. About six or eight weeks before my son was born, I went to the doctor to have my eyes checked. He discovered I had a hole in my retina. He recommended I have it lasered closed right away, before the baby was born. It could rupture and cause blindness during labor. He also said from the looks of it, it had been there for quite a while, and that I was lucky nothing serious had happened so far.
After I had the hole in my retina fixed, my friend had returned to the psychic a few times, and even my mom had paid her a visit. Not once was I, my eyes, or my driving mentioned again.
“She’s really good. I totally believe her.”
“Good,” I said. As fascinated as I am, I always take things like this with a grain of salt.
“She mentioned you by name,” my friend continued.
That really got my attention. “What? My name?”
My friend nodded. “Yeah. She said, ‘Do you know someone named Silver?’ I said yeah. She said, ‘Tell her to be careful with her eyes.’”
I hesitated. “My eyes?” My eyes have never given me trouble, except that I wear glasses—and at the time, I had to have my prescription changed frequently because they kept getting worse. Not unusual, my doctor had told me. It would level out as I got older. Which was true. “How do you know she meant me?”
“You’re the only Silver I know.”
“Huh.”
“She also said, ‘Tell her to be very careful driving.’”
“No way. Really?”
“Yeah. I think she gave me more information about you than she did about me.”
Somehow, I felt guilty about that. “Sorry.”
“Well, it wasn’t so bad. I think she’s really good. I’m going to go again.”
Some time had passed--two or three weeks, maybe—and I’d forgotten all about the psychic lady my friend had visited. It was early on a Saturday evening, and I was driving to a local pizza place to pick up a slice for dinner. We lived out in the country, and the roads were long and straight, and the speed limit was a typical 55 mph. and I tended to drive with a lead foot.
About a quarter mile ahead of me, there was another car. I saw it hit its brake lights briefly and then move on. As I approached the spot where the car had slowed down, I hit the brakes, hard. Right there, almost in the middle of the road, stood a small toddler boy. His parents were nowhere in sight. I pulled over, got out of the car, and walked up to him.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Silver. Where are your mommy and daddy?”
The little boy pointed toward the house, set back about 100 feet from the road.
“Well, let’s go find them, okay?” I took him by the hand and he lead me to the side door. I rang the doorbell, and the child ran inside. I told the mother where I’d found her son, and that if I or another driver hadn’t been paying attention, he could have gotten killed.
The words frightened me, probably as much as they frightened the mother. My god. I could have killed this child on my way to get a freaking slice of pizza. I could have taken a life, and permanently altered the lives of this family, my family—and myself. How could I live with such a thing hanging over my head like that?
The woman thanked me, and I walked back to my car. My friend’s message rang in my ears again. “She said to be very careful driving.”
Shortly after that, my friend went to the psychic again, and returned with another message for me. “She said to tell you to be careful with her eyes.”
“Again? Why does she keep mentioning me?”
My friend just looked at me. “I think you should go, so you can talk to her personally.”
Remembering the warning about driving, I took down the details and made an appointment.
I went, and it was interesting. She offers to record each session, so I brought a tape with me. I don’t remember what she told me, except that she saw a lot of paper around me. She asked if I was a student. I wasn’t. But I told her I was in publishing and did a lot of copy editing. And I told her I had just started writing again. “Keep doing it,” she said to me. She was very emphatic about it. “Keep writing and start showing it to people.”
Well, if you check out my fiction from that time, you’ll see it isn’t great. It wasn’t until a couple years ago that I finally started showing people my work. And writing more regularly. My short stories kept getting longer, so last year I decided to try writing a book. I have yet to finish one, but I’ve got tons of ideas. That and Blogit keep me very busy. Very preoccupied.
She said some other things, which I don’t remember very clearly. The tape, I think, is long gone. I’d tossed it in my desk drawer at home, intending to listen again after I’d gotten some distance from it. But then I got married and moved away, and I think my mom threw the tape in the trash, not knowing what it was.
The psychic did, however, mention an aunt by name and suggested she start taking aspirin regularly to fend off an impending stroke or something. And she told me to be careful about my eyes.
Again, with my eyes. Just what was up with that???
After I got married, I got pregnant right away. About six or eight weeks before my son was born, I went to the doctor to have my eyes checked. He discovered I had a hole in my retina. He recommended I have it lasered closed right away, before the baby was born. It could rupture and cause blindness during labor. He also said from the looks of it, it had been there for quite a while, and that I was lucky nothing serious had happened so far.
After I had the hole in my retina fixed, my friend had returned to the psychic a few times, and even my mom had paid her a visit. Not once was I, my eyes, or my driving mentioned again.
Monday, October 17, 2005
How do you explain it?
There has been a lot of talk lately of things metaphysical. I’ll be honest in saying that I love this area of thought in most of its forms. I’m deeply intrigued by psychics and the paranormal, in particular. It’s funny, isn’t it, how many people are interested in this subject, but how few are willing to admit it?
I wanted to share with you-all some of my experiences. They are not extraordinary, and they certainly don’t involved any latent talent of my own come to light. I’m pretty boring. I don’t see ghosts. I can’t tell the future. I get strong instinctual feelings and, more often than not, am wrong. I always choose the longest line at the bank or grocery store, no matter how I open my mind to show me the shortest. Sometimes I second-guess myself, and am wrong even then.
When we were in Frankfurt one day in July, we were driving around looking for someplace to eat. A McDonald’s would have been fine. A Burger King would have been better. My husband drew up to a corner and asked me which direction we should go. He has good instincts, but sometimes he asks me. I paused, and after a moment I said straight ahead. My husband, strangely enough, agreed. I asked, “Know why I said straight?” His answer was straight on. He said, “Because you were going to say right, but knew you always guess wrong, so you said straight instead.” Yes, he knows me well. And that only illustrates just how often I’m off the mark.
But I’ve gotten off track. I’d like to share one of my most cherished memories.
When I was young, I think I might have been nine years old, my grandparents (my dad’s parents) had driven up from Florida to Chicago for a visit. It was summer, and they invited me to drive back down with them, and I’d take a plane home in a week or two, after I’d visited my mother’s parents.
Driving from Chicago to Florida can require one or two overnights in a motel—especially with the elderly. On one of our overnights, the three of us bedded down nice and cozy for the evening after calling my mom and dad back in Chicago. Grandma and Grandpa shared one bed, and I was in the other.
The next morning, they both asked me if I remembered getting up in the night. I said no. They told me I had gotten up and curled into bed next to my grandpa, thinking it was my dad.
I wanted to share with you-all some of my experiences. They are not extraordinary, and they certainly don’t involved any latent talent of my own come to light. I’m pretty boring. I don’t see ghosts. I can’t tell the future. I get strong instinctual feelings and, more often than not, am wrong. I always choose the longest line at the bank or grocery store, no matter how I open my mind to show me the shortest. Sometimes I second-guess myself, and am wrong even then.
When we were in Frankfurt one day in July, we were driving around looking for someplace to eat. A McDonald’s would have been fine. A Burger King would have been better. My husband drew up to a corner and asked me which direction we should go. He has good instincts, but sometimes he asks me. I paused, and after a moment I said straight ahead. My husband, strangely enough, agreed. I asked, “Know why I said straight?” His answer was straight on. He said, “Because you were going to say right, but knew you always guess wrong, so you said straight instead.” Yes, he knows me well. And that only illustrates just how often I’m off the mark.
But I’ve gotten off track. I’d like to share one of my most cherished memories.
When I was young, I think I might have been nine years old, my grandparents (my dad’s parents) had driven up from Florida to Chicago for a visit. It was summer, and they invited me to drive back down with them, and I’d take a plane home in a week or two, after I’d visited my mother’s parents.
Driving from Chicago to Florida can require one or two overnights in a motel—especially with the elderly. On one of our overnights, the three of us bedded down nice and cozy for the evening after calling my mom and dad back in Chicago. Grandma and Grandpa shared one bed, and I was in the other.
The next morning, they both asked me if I remembered getting up in the night. I said no. They told me I had gotten up and curled into bed next to my grandpa, thinking it was my dad.
“Daddy, I’m cold,” I’d said to him. He woke up and carried me back to my bed.
I’m not a sleepwalker, and I thought it was pretty funny to hear that I’d done something like
that. When we called my mom and dad the next evening, I told them what had happened. My ad didn’t think it was funny at all. He said, “Well, I had a dream last night that you came to our bed. You were cold, and you were having trouble breathing. I tried to keep you warm.” (I have asthma, which was a constant trouble in my youth.)
My father and I had had the same dream. We were very close when I was young, so it didn’t surprise me that we had shared dreams. When I was young, my world revolved around my dad, and this was evidence of how closely we were linked. I thought it was really wonderful.
Later, when I was in high school, I had a friend who was not the best influence on sweet innocent me. My friend had asked me to sleep over at her house. Her mother was out of town for the weekend, and my friend was having a little party. I asked my mom and dad, and somehow, this time, they knew to ask if my friend’s mother was going to be there.
Naturally, I lied.
So my dad dropped me off at her apartment, and the evening progressed smoothly. And then it was 11:00 or so, and it was time for all of us to get ready to go to the midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. We saw the movie (for the millionth time), and then we stopped off at Wag’s for fries, coffee, waffles, whatever.
Fact was, it was about 2:30 am. We were sitting at our corner table, when I had this strong feeling.
“Uh-oh,” I said suddenly to my friend, cutting across the conversation at our table. “Does your mom know I’m spending the night?”
“No,” she said. “She thinks I’m staying the night at your house.”
This was news to me. But it didn’t matter at the moment. “Umm, I think your mom just called my dad.”
We decided shortly after to wrap things up and go home.
Sure enough, my friend’s mother was waiting for us when we got back to her place. For whatever reason, she'd come home early. She was pretty mad that my friend had lied to her, but said I could stay the rest of the night, and my dad would come pick me up in the morning. In the meantime, I was to call my dad to let him know I was all right.
It was mother’s instinct that made her return home in the middle of the night, then call my father in search of her daughter. Since the apartment was probably in a real state from the party we’d had, it had likely made her doubt her daughter had spent her evening at my house.
But how did I know she had called my dad? How, in the middle of all our mid-adolescent antics, after a night of drinking cheap beer and Rocky Horror and a plate of French fries with friends at 2:30 am, did I know my dad was wondering where in the hell I was?
I didn’t get in trouble for my friend’s indiscretion. I hadn’t known she’d told her mom she was at my house. But I was very much reminded of the bond between my dad and me.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Wilkommen zu unser Zuhause
For the first half of September, the weather here in lovely Wildberg was warm and sunny. It was the summer we mostly didn't have, this year. The weather finally took a turn, however, and fall is finally here. As the cold front moved in, so did some lovely photo opportunities...
The is the front half of the house. Our landlady, Friedl, lives in this half. The picture is taken from the parking lot... sorry, driveway below. (The driveway is pretty big, considering there are three garages beneath the house that belong to Friedl, and another huge,
two-car garage to the right.)
The is the front half of the house. Our landlady, Friedl, lives in this half. The picture is taken from the parking lot... sorry, driveway below. (The driveway is pretty big, considering there are three garages beneath the house that belong to Friedl, and another huge,
two-car garage to the right.)
~~~
This is our house. You can see Friedl's connecting front half on the left. The two windows and glass patio door you see on the lower level belong to the kitchen, and it's a huge kitchen! This picture is taken from the hill I frequently refer to in my posts. Across the distance, and thanks to my camera's zoom feature, it appears smaller in the photo than it really is. The white chimney separate from the house is our grill. It's huge, too. We have a great big patio, a little patch of yard behind the grill, with a big shady hazelnut tree. We like to watch the squirrels climb the trees in the garden behind ours, and run through the connecting branches
to collect the nuts in our tree.
to collect the nuts in our tree.
~~~
Ahh, pretty clouds over the Black Forest, as seen from our kitchen door.
~~~
The rain and fog move in as the cold front sweeps through... and so do my rain pains. Ouch. But it's worth it. I love this weather, and to watch it from the kitchen window
is a heavenly experience.
is a heavenly experience.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Quote of the Day
We had a diarrhea epidemic in our house last week. Those invovled basically have returned to good health, with minor accidents here and there. The occasion was punctuated by this little exchange yesterday:
My son and I were walking to the Kindergarten. As he walked, he released a very large fart. We're normally a very open family who laughs and giggles at such things (sue me!), but this one was met with silence.
"I farted," my son informed me, as if I hadn't heard. Really, anyone passing across the street would have heard that one.
"Yes, I know..." I said, feeling a little worried.
Before I could ask, he said, "Don't worry, Mommy. This time it was dry."
My son and I were walking to the Kindergarten. As he walked, he released a very large fart. We're normally a very open family who laughs and giggles at such things (sue me!), but this one was met with silence.
"I farted," my son informed me, as if I hadn't heard. Really, anyone passing across the street would have heard that one.
"Yes, I know..." I said, feeling a little worried.
Before I could ask, he said, "Don't worry, Mommy. This time it was dry."
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Good News, and A New Role
On Friday, my sister-in-law gave birth to her twin girls. We're all very excited. She was taking fertility drugs, and finally last winter she became pregnant. She'd looked really awful during her entire pregnancy, and in fact, had been throwing up clear into her third trimester. Poor woman.
She was actually due in November, but the last time we saw her a few weeks ago, I told her the girls were coming the middle of October. I took one look at her and I knew. She was so uncomfortable and looked so ashen, and had been confined to 80-percent bedrest. We were all worried about her.
There were complications during the birth. She had to have a caesarian, and there was an argument between the doctor and the anaesthetist over whether it was safe to put my sister-in-law under. The doctor said it was time, and it was dangerous to let it go on any longer. The anaesthetist said it was too dangerous to put her under at that time. In the meantime, the clock was ticking, and my sister-in-law was in serious discomfort.
When my son was delivered, I'd had complications, too. To make a boring story short, he should have been caesarian--he was a large baby, and I've a small frame. The result--after 24 hours of labor, a reluctant and stingy anaesthetist, and the head nurse pushing down on my belly to force my son out while the doctor sucked him out with a mechanical suction cup--was paralysis to my son's right arm, which required a year of physical therapy.
Turns out, my in-laws were at the same hospital I was. If they had known, they would have chosen another. If we had known, we would have advised against that particular hospital.
The babies were finally delivered, five weeks early, but they both received low Apgar scores all three times. The smaller one had stopped breathing more than once, and had been put on a respirator. My sister- and brother-in-law were beside themselves, but I reassured my husband that it's not uncommon for early babies to go through this kind of thing. I explained that Apgar scores are more to help the doctors determine what kind of treatment the babies should receive, and are not a guide for the parents to determine how healthy they are. And certainly not to determine their future development.
On Monday, we visited. Everyone is doing fine. The babies look strong and alert, though they are kept in Intensive Care, and are monitored. They are the tiniest things I've ever held in my arms. Both of them together are smaller than my son was when he was born (9.5 pounds).
And while I held one of them and cooed and marveled at the miracle of life, I suddenly realized one thing:
I'm an Aunt.
She was actually due in November, but the last time we saw her a few weeks ago, I told her the girls were coming the middle of October. I took one look at her and I knew. She was so uncomfortable and looked so ashen, and had been confined to 80-percent bedrest. We were all worried about her.
There were complications during the birth. She had to have a caesarian, and there was an argument between the doctor and the anaesthetist over whether it was safe to put my sister-in-law under. The doctor said it was time, and it was dangerous to let it go on any longer. The anaesthetist said it was too dangerous to put her under at that time. In the meantime, the clock was ticking, and my sister-in-law was in serious discomfort.
When my son was delivered, I'd had complications, too. To make a boring story short, he should have been caesarian--he was a large baby, and I've a small frame. The result--after 24 hours of labor, a reluctant and stingy anaesthetist, and the head nurse pushing down on my belly to force my son out while the doctor sucked him out with a mechanical suction cup--was paralysis to my son's right arm, which required a year of physical therapy.
Turns out, my in-laws were at the same hospital I was. If they had known, they would have chosen another. If we had known, we would have advised against that particular hospital.
The babies were finally delivered, five weeks early, but they both received low Apgar scores all three times. The smaller one had stopped breathing more than once, and had been put on a respirator. My sister- and brother-in-law were beside themselves, but I reassured my husband that it's not uncommon for early babies to go through this kind of thing. I explained that Apgar scores are more to help the doctors determine what kind of treatment the babies should receive, and are not a guide for the parents to determine how healthy they are. And certainly not to determine their future development.
On Monday, we visited. Everyone is doing fine. The babies look strong and alert, though they are kept in Intensive Care, and are monitored. They are the tiniest things I've ever held in my arms. Both of them together are smaller than my son was when he was born (9.5 pounds).
And while I held one of them and cooed and marveled at the miracle of life, I suddenly realized one thing:
I'm an Aunt.
Well Whaddya Know
On Friday, my sister-in-law gave birth to her twin girls. We're all very excited. She was taking fertility drugs, and finally last winter she became pregnant. She'd looked really awful during her entire pregnancy, and in fact, had been throwing up clear into her third trimester. Poor woman.
She was actually due in November, but the last time we saw her a few weeks ago, I told her the girls were coming the middle of October. I took one look at her and I knew. She was so uncomfortable and looked so ashen, and had been confined to 80-percent bedrest. We were all worried about her.
There were complications during the birth. She had to have a caesarian, and there was an argument between the doctor and the anaesthetist over whether it was safe to put my sister-in-law under. The doctor said it was time, and it was dangerous to let it go on any longer. The anaesthetist said it was too dangerous to put her under at that time. In the meantime, the clock was ticking, and my sister-in-law was in serious discomfort.
When my son was delivered, I'd had complications, too. To make a boring story short, he should have been caesarian--he was a large baby, and I've a small frame. The result--after 24 hours of labor, a reluctant and stingy anaesthetist, and the head nurse pushing down on my belly to force my son out while the doctor sucked him out with a mechanical suction cup--was paralysis to my son's right arm, which required a year of physical therapy.
Turns out, my in-laws were at the same hospital I was. If they had know, they would have chosen another. If we had known, we would have advised against that particular hospital.
The babies were finally delivered, five weeks early, but they both received low Apgar scores all three times. The smaller one had stopped breathing more than once, and had been put on a respirator. My sister- and brother-in-law were beside themselves, but I reassured my husband that it's not uncommon for early babies to go through this kind of thing. I explained that Apgar scores are more to help the doctors determine what kind of treatment the babies should receive, and are not a guide for the parents to determine how healthy they are. And certainly not to determine their future development.
On Monday, we visited. Everyone is doing fine. The babies look strong and alert, though they are kept in Intensive Care, and are monitored. They are the tiniest things I've ever held in my arms. Both of them together are smaller than my son was when he was born (9.5 pounds).
And while I held one of them and cooed and marveled at the miracle of life, I suddenly realized one thing:
I'm an Aunt.
She was actually due in November, but the last time we saw her a few weeks ago, I told her the girls were coming the middle of October. I took one look at her and I knew. She was so uncomfortable and looked so ashen, and had been confined to 80-percent bedrest. We were all worried about her.
There were complications during the birth. She had to have a caesarian, and there was an argument between the doctor and the anaesthetist over whether it was safe to put my sister-in-law under. The doctor said it was time, and it was dangerous to let it go on any longer. The anaesthetist said it was too dangerous to put her under at that time. In the meantime, the clock was ticking, and my sister-in-law was in serious discomfort.
When my son was delivered, I'd had complications, too. To make a boring story short, he should have been caesarian--he was a large baby, and I've a small frame. The result--after 24 hours of labor, a reluctant and stingy anaesthetist, and the head nurse pushing down on my belly to force my son out while the doctor sucked him out with a mechanical suction cup--was paralysis to my son's right arm, which required a year of physical therapy.
Turns out, my in-laws were at the same hospital I was. If they had know, they would have chosen another. If we had known, we would have advised against that particular hospital.
The babies were finally delivered, five weeks early, but they both received low Apgar scores all three times. The smaller one had stopped breathing more than once, and had been put on a respirator. My sister- and brother-in-law were beside themselves, but I reassured my husband that it's not uncommon for early babies to go through this kind of thing. I explained that Apgar scores are more to help the doctors determine what kind of treatment the babies should receive, and are not a guide for the parents to determine how healthy they are. And certainly not to determine their future development.
On Monday, we visited. Everyone is doing fine. The babies look strong and alert, though they are kept in Intensive Care, and are monitored. They are the tiniest things I've ever held in my arms. Both of them together are smaller than my son was when he was born (9.5 pounds).
And while I held one of them and cooed and marveled at the miracle of life, I suddenly realized one thing:
I'm an Aunt.
Friday, October 7, 2005
Odorferous Foibles
Every morning, when I walk my son to Kindergarten, I take care to lock up our house. The house is actually two apartments, one above, one on the ground floor. That means, there are two interior doors that open into the two separate apartments. Both of these doors get locked every time we leave the house unattended. There's a story behind this, but I'll get to it another time.
So, Tuesday morning, I locked up nice and tight and headed off, then returned to the house, unlocked everything, and went about my business, as usual. When it was time to pick up my boy, I locked up again. When we returned, I undid the lower-level door, then headed upstairs and unlocked the door that leads to the main part of the house. The door unlocked just fine, but I couldn't twist the key all the way around its 180-degree circuit that clicks the lock into place and releases the key.
(We use locks that need skeleton keys. It's a system that's still very much in use in Germany. And yes, you can peek right through them into the other room, just like in the old Tom 'n' Jerry cartoons!)
I couldn't get the key out of the door. Inconvenient, but at least we could get into the rest of the house.
My husband told our landlady, Friedl, and the next day she brought a locksmith over to take a look. "Kein problem," he said. "We'll come over tomorrow afternoon and fix it. About 16:00. (4:00 pm).
The next day, predictably, 4:00 pm came and went, and about 5:00 pm, I got a call from one of his workers. "Es tut mir leid. We can't come today. Is tomorrow morning between 7:30-8:30 okay?" That was the only time anyone was available.
7:30 is a little early for me, and my son was sick, and I was starting to feel a little ill, myself. But, I had little choice but to say yes, or have to wait the whole weekend to have our lock fixed. So, I agreed.
I woke up this morning at 6:50, my gut rumbling. That did not bode well. I rushed into the bathroom knowing I had definitely contracted my son's illness. Then, I got dressed, padded up the stairs and opened the windows in the kitchen and living room to air out the residual smokey smell from the previous days' struggles with the wood stove. Then, I tidied up the kitchen.
Then I settled in at the computer (after another stop in the toilet) to wait for the locksmith.
7:30 passed. So did 8:30. At 9:30, I called my husband just to complain that they were late. Not unexpected, but irritating, because I hadn't showered yet, and I'd been postponing another trip to the bathroom because, well, I didn't want to stink up the joint.
At 1:30, my husband called the locksmith, and by 2:30 he was here. I was feeling pretty ripe by then. When I'd gotten dressed and semi-primped early in the morning, I looked half-way decent. But a day of ill health, while tending to my son's needs, and trying to get the laundry done in between, had taken its toll. Having not yet showered, I couldn't have smelled good, and I certainly did not look my best. But I didn't care. It was a bloody locksmith. He was just coming to get the key out of the lock and move on.
But the man who walked through my door made me want to cringe in horror. A young man of medium height, sandy hair, blue eyes, and so damn cute. And there I was, looking like a nightmare of housewifery. I wanted to crawl into a hole a hide until he left.
He was very nice to my son, too, who followed him around asking all kinds of questions.
I remained out of site, too mortified to satisfy my own curiosity by watching. I determined he must be about 15 years younger than me, and I fantasized how he would look once he finished growing into this bone structure. In ten years, he would be one handsome guy. Yowza.
When he was done, I could barely look him in the eye. I must reek something awful. And I already knew how terrible I looked. But he smiled, and was friendly, and didn't behave as if I were repulsive or invisible.
He said goodbye, and turned away, heading down the stairs and out the door. And that's when it hit me. I wasn't so concerned about my B.O., anymore. because I'd caught a whiff of his. As he departed, I was left standing in a wake of armpit stink powerful enough to wake the dead and knock 'em out again.
I cursed as, again, I ran to the bathroom. But then I smiled, knowing that even the best of us can have moments when we fill a room with our presense. No shame in that. It only human.
But I did check to make sure I had plenty of deoderant in stock.
And then I took a very long shower.
So, Tuesday morning, I locked up nice and tight and headed off, then returned to the house, unlocked everything, and went about my business, as usual. When it was time to pick up my boy, I locked up again. When we returned, I undid the lower-level door, then headed upstairs and unlocked the door that leads to the main part of the house. The door unlocked just fine, but I couldn't twist the key all the way around its 180-degree circuit that clicks the lock into place and releases the key.
(We use locks that need skeleton keys. It's a system that's still very much in use in Germany. And yes, you can peek right through them into the other room, just like in the old Tom 'n' Jerry cartoons!)
I couldn't get the key out of the door. Inconvenient, but at least we could get into the rest of the house.
My husband told our landlady, Friedl, and the next day she brought a locksmith over to take a look. "Kein problem," he said. "We'll come over tomorrow afternoon and fix it. About 16:00. (4:00 pm).
The next day, predictably, 4:00 pm came and went, and about 5:00 pm, I got a call from one of his workers. "Es tut mir leid. We can't come today. Is tomorrow morning between 7:30-8:30 okay?" That was the only time anyone was available.
7:30 is a little early for me, and my son was sick, and I was starting to feel a little ill, myself. But, I had little choice but to say yes, or have to wait the whole weekend to have our lock fixed. So, I agreed.
I woke up this morning at 6:50, my gut rumbling. That did not bode well. I rushed into the bathroom knowing I had definitely contracted my son's illness. Then, I got dressed, padded up the stairs and opened the windows in the kitchen and living room to air out the residual smokey smell from the previous days' struggles with the wood stove. Then, I tidied up the kitchen.
Then I settled in at the computer (after another stop in the toilet) to wait for the locksmith.
7:30 passed. So did 8:30. At 9:30, I called my husband just to complain that they were late. Not unexpected, but irritating, because I hadn't showered yet, and I'd been postponing another trip to the bathroom because, well, I didn't want to stink up the joint.
At 1:30, my husband called the locksmith, and by 2:30 he was here. I was feeling pretty ripe by then. When I'd gotten dressed and semi-primped early in the morning, I looked half-way decent. But a day of ill health, while tending to my son's needs, and trying to get the laundry done in between, had taken its toll. Having not yet showered, I couldn't have smelled good, and I certainly did not look my best. But I didn't care. It was a bloody locksmith. He was just coming to get the key out of the lock and move on.
But the man who walked through my door made me want to cringe in horror. A young man of medium height, sandy hair, blue eyes, and so damn cute. And there I was, looking like a nightmare of housewifery. I wanted to crawl into a hole a hide until he left.
He was very nice to my son, too, who followed him around asking all kinds of questions.
I remained out of site, too mortified to satisfy my own curiosity by watching. I determined he must be about 15 years younger than me, and I fantasized how he would look once he finished growing into this bone structure. In ten years, he would be one handsome guy. Yowza.
When he was done, I could barely look him in the eye. I must reek something awful. And I already knew how terrible I looked. But he smiled, and was friendly, and didn't behave as if I were repulsive or invisible.
He said goodbye, and turned away, heading down the stairs and out the door. And that's when it hit me. I wasn't so concerned about my B.O., anymore. because I'd caught a whiff of his. As he departed, I was left standing in a wake of armpit stink powerful enough to wake the dead and knock 'em out again.
I cursed as, again, I ran to the bathroom. But then I smiled, knowing that even the best of us can have moments when we fill a room with our presense. No shame in that. It only human.
But I did check to make sure I had plenty of deoderant in stock.
And then I took a very long shower.
QUESTION OF THE DAY. . .
Have you ever laid down your glasses without thinking (to do something like, oh, say, smear on some facial moisturizer), and then couldn't see to find them again? I just did that. My face is about three inches from the computer screen to see what I'm typing. I really didn't want to put my contacts in today, but it "looks" like I might have to...
Have a great wonderful fantastic weekend, everyone!
Have a great wonderful fantastic weekend, everyone!
Thursday, October 6, 2005
Some People Think Its Funny...
But it’s really wet and muddy.
Diarrhea. The scourge of mankind. The great leveler.
And my son is suffering from it.
It’s been going around at his Kindergarten, and I suppose it was only inevitable that he should contract it, as well. Well, he doesn’t appear to be suffering, except for the running back and forth to the toilet, the constant changing of underwear—he’s watching movies, jumping around pretending to be Spiderman, making the usual racket. His appetite isn’t even suffering, and he doesn’t have a fever. So, I’m not particularly worried.
And I don’t feel particularly guilty about complaining about it, either.
To be honest, it’s been a pain in the ass. I’ve thrown my back out cleaning up after the little guy, stooping to wipe his butt, clean the floor, scrub undies. It’s times like this I’m more thankful than usual that I have only one child to tend. I can’t imagine myself running behind two or more children and dealing with this kind of mess.
Don’t get me wrong, my heart goes out to him. Naturally, possessing the tender heart of a mother, I don’t want my child suffering illness. But after his bout of stomach flu two weeks ago, cleaning after the careless pissing of both males in this household (Men, please pay better attention to where you aim. Keep at least one hand on your willie, and one eye on the target ), and now this, I’ve just about had it with messy bodily fluids.
Calgon, take me away… and ease my aching back.
By the way, I did manage to figure out how to start a fire on the first go. Thanks to Hearth.com. Anyone who has trouble getting their fireplace or wood stove going, take a gander at this site. It even boasts a handy dandy video for those of you, like me, who benefit from visuals.
Diarrhea. The scourge of mankind. The great leveler.
And my son is suffering from it.
It’s been going around at his Kindergarten, and I suppose it was only inevitable that he should contract it, as well. Well, he doesn’t appear to be suffering, except for the running back and forth to the toilet, the constant changing of underwear—he’s watching movies, jumping around pretending to be Spiderman, making the usual racket. His appetite isn’t even suffering, and he doesn’t have a fever. So, I’m not particularly worried.
And I don’t feel particularly guilty about complaining about it, either.
To be honest, it’s been a pain in the ass. I’ve thrown my back out cleaning up after the little guy, stooping to wipe his butt, clean the floor, scrub undies. It’s times like this I’m more thankful than usual that I have only one child to tend. I can’t imagine myself running behind two or more children and dealing with this kind of mess.
Don’t get me wrong, my heart goes out to him. Naturally, possessing the tender heart of a mother, I don’t want my child suffering illness. But after his bout of stomach flu two weeks ago, cleaning after the careless pissing of both males in this household (Men, please pay better attention to where you aim. Keep at least one hand on your willie, and one eye on the target ), and now this, I’ve just about had it with messy bodily fluids.
Calgon, take me away… and ease my aching back.
By the way, I did manage to figure out how to start a fire on the first go. Thanks to Hearth.com. Anyone who has trouble getting their fireplace or wood stove going, take a gander at this site. It even boasts a handy dandy video for those of you, like me, who benefit from visuals.
Tuesday, October 4, 2005
Ahh, the Spicy Scent of Wood Smoke... ga-ack!
I LOVE Fall.
And now that it has arrived, walking my son to Kindergarten every morning is enhanced by the scent of burning wood hanging heavy in air.
Here in Germany, a very popular alternative to the standard wall-mounted oil heaters--especially in this neck of the woods where firewood is plentiful and inexpensive--is the Kaminofen. A Kaminofen is a wood-burning stove used for heat, just like a fireplace. It's equally decorative, but the difference is it's a little stove stuck in the corner of a room (usually the living room), with a large pipe that leads from it into one or more other rooms and exhausts through the roof. It's enclosed, with little glass doors, and is very romantic.
So, beginning this time of year, until about May or so, you can walk outside any time of the day and the air smells like campfires. I love it. It reminds me of summer weekend mornings when I was a musician at the renaissance faire, and I'd smell this smell passing by merchants' booths, where the merchants who lived in the rooms above their shops set to preparing their morning coffee. Or where the glazier stoked her fire nice and hot to make her cups and bowls and figurines throughout the day. Or the mushroom guy, getting ready to sautee his first batch of garlic mushrooms. A particular scent of incense also burned, and pacing through the fair site before opening gate was a magical experience for me. And connected to it all is the image of a medieval village starting its day.
The smell is inspiring to me.
We have a Kaminofen, too. Last year, we didn't use it and were sorry for it. Our electric oil heaters are inefficient at best. We had to crank them very high to heat the rooms to a livable temperature. Our heating bill was enormous, and we were horrified. When we lived in Stuttgart, our heating bill was extremely low--but then, our apartment was very small and in the middle of the building. We barely used the heat.
So, this year, we decided to put our Kaminofen to use. The problem with this thing is, if you're not adept at building fires from scratch, you will have that yummy campfire smell in your house--at which point the idea of a fire and it's wonderful smell stops being yummy and romantic. I have spent the last week attempting to quickly and efficiently build a fire, and keep it stoked, without clouds of smoke escaping and polluting our main living area on the upper level. I've gotten the fire going, and kept it going, but every time we've had to let it die down because of the smell, and then open the windows to air it out.
It's not just my inexperience that's contributing to the problem. There's an art to the technique of fire building, and I'm determined to learn it. However, I'm also certain the joints in the pipes leak. When we moved in, before we painted, I saw the black smoke stains on the walls from the previous tenants (the ones who left all their junk in our garage for six or seven months before clearing it away). And now I know what that funky permanent smell is that haunts the upper floor--stale wood smoke embedded in the walls, a smell so deep that not even painting over it could eliminate it.
We can't really afford to have the pipes looked at and fixed. And I don't like living amid the rogue clouds of smoke that escaped during my hurry to put another log on the fire. I mean it really stinks. It's strong and my hair reeks of it. We will look for a heat-resistant duct tape, however; and I will ask our landlady exactly how to get a proper fire started and maintained (I have a strained relationship with her, and I usually avoid contact) tomorrow.
We may end up foregoing the Kaminofen altogether and make use of a couple of space heaters to supplement our bad oil heaters. But until we definitively elimnate the wood stove as a means of heat, we may all come down with black lung or die of carbon monoxide poisoning.
If, inexplicably, you never hear from me again, you'll know why.
In the meantime, I feel pissy that the wonderful campfire smell that drifts through our village is no longer as inspiring as it is a frustrating reminder of the struggles I have with our own wood burning.
The Kaminofen (wood stove), as an instrument of torture.
And now that it has arrived, walking my son to Kindergarten every morning is enhanced by the scent of burning wood hanging heavy in air.
Here in Germany, a very popular alternative to the standard wall-mounted oil heaters--especially in this neck of the woods where firewood is plentiful and inexpensive--is the Kaminofen. A Kaminofen is a wood-burning stove used for heat, just like a fireplace. It's equally decorative, but the difference is it's a little stove stuck in the corner of a room (usually the living room), with a large pipe that leads from it into one or more other rooms and exhausts through the roof. It's enclosed, with little glass doors, and is very romantic.
So, beginning this time of year, until about May or so, you can walk outside any time of the day and the air smells like campfires. I love it. It reminds me of summer weekend mornings when I was a musician at the renaissance faire, and I'd smell this smell passing by merchants' booths, where the merchants who lived in the rooms above their shops set to preparing their morning coffee. Or where the glazier stoked her fire nice and hot to make her cups and bowls and figurines throughout the day. Or the mushroom guy, getting ready to sautee his first batch of garlic mushrooms. A particular scent of incense also burned, and pacing through the fair site before opening gate was a magical experience for me. And connected to it all is the image of a medieval village starting its day.
The smell is inspiring to me.
We have a Kaminofen, too. Last year, we didn't use it and were sorry for it. Our electric oil heaters are inefficient at best. We had to crank them very high to heat the rooms to a livable temperature. Our heating bill was enormous, and we were horrified. When we lived in Stuttgart, our heating bill was extremely low--but then, our apartment was very small and in the middle of the building. We barely used the heat.
So, this year, we decided to put our Kaminofen to use. The problem with this thing is, if you're not adept at building fires from scratch, you will have that yummy campfire smell in your house--at which point the idea of a fire and it's wonderful smell stops being yummy and romantic. I have spent the last week attempting to quickly and efficiently build a fire, and keep it stoked, without clouds of smoke escaping and polluting our main living area on the upper level. I've gotten the fire going, and kept it going, but every time we've had to let it die down because of the smell, and then open the windows to air it out.
It's not just my inexperience that's contributing to the problem. There's an art to the technique of fire building, and I'm determined to learn it. However, I'm also certain the joints in the pipes leak. When we moved in, before we painted, I saw the black smoke stains on the walls from the previous tenants (the ones who left all their junk in our garage for six or seven months before clearing it away). And now I know what that funky permanent smell is that haunts the upper floor--stale wood smoke embedded in the walls, a smell so deep that not even painting over it could eliminate it.
We can't really afford to have the pipes looked at and fixed. And I don't like living amid the rogue clouds of smoke that escaped during my hurry to put another log on the fire. I mean it really stinks. It's strong and my hair reeks of it. We will look for a heat-resistant duct tape, however; and I will ask our landlady exactly how to get a proper fire started and maintained (I have a strained relationship with her, and I usually avoid contact) tomorrow.
We may end up foregoing the Kaminofen altogether and make use of a couple of space heaters to supplement our bad oil heaters. But until we definitively elimnate the wood stove as a means of heat, we may all come down with black lung or die of carbon monoxide poisoning.
If, inexplicably, you never hear from me again, you'll know why.
In the meantime, I feel pissy that the wonderful campfire smell that drifts through our village is no longer as inspiring as it is a frustrating reminder of the struggles I have with our own wood burning.
The Kaminofen (wood stove), as an instrument of torture.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)