| Introspection, Insanity, Before and After |
Without fail, every time I sit down to update this blog my mind races with everything that I want to share, but then I stop because, well, I don’t exactly know why. I guess part of me is feeling incredibly introspective these days and just happy to be alone with my thoughts, so to speak.
And ho boy does running ever give me lots of time for being alone with my thoughts, especially while training for a half-marathon. Technically, since I’ve already ran further than 21km at once I know finishing the half-marathon shouldn’t be too difficult but I’m not exactly breaking any records. Not that I expect to, god, not even maybe, but I’d like to finish the half in less than two hours. It’ll probably be more like two hours and fifteen minutes, but I’ve still got a month to work on speed. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll attempt a full marathon this fall, if, you know, I can ever wrap my head around how insane it sounds to run 42km all at once.
Speaking of Insanity, I finished it. Not that I think I’ve ever mentioned anything about that workout here, but anyone who follows me on twitter has heard my incessant bitching and moaning about how hard the past 60 days have been. Seriously, Insanity was the most physically challenging thing I have done. There were days that I was so drained at the end of a workout that I would literally collapse into a pile of my own sweat and just weep. And I’m not exactly sure if it was because I was glad to be finished or just relieved I wasn’t dead.
2009 was a year marred with several health issues and I had put on about 15lbs. Most of my clothes no longer fit and I barely recognized the person staring back at me in the mirror. I vowed to get back into shape in 2010 and when I realized doing Jillian Michael DVD's wasn’t getting me to where I wanted to be, I decided to give Insanity a try and I’m actually pretty stoked with the results. It was two months of intensity and counting every single calorie I put in my mouth. And oh did I ever enjoy those calories because I’m now eating more than I have ever eaten in my entire life, but that’s a whole other post that I need to bang out.
I can't believe I'm posting this picture online, but, well, here it is. My before and after Insanity pictures.
 In hindsight, I wish I had a before picture from the beginning of this year to compare against. The first picture was taken two weeks into Insanity and also after I had completed Jillian’s 30 day shred. All I know is that I watched my body fat drop from about 23% in January down to where I stand today, at 16.8%. I know better now, after reading and following Kristin’s incredible fitness journey (and man oh man what a lovely picture perfect epitome of fitness she is) the importance of measuring progress, and I’m committed to doing that more closely moving forward.
I don’t know what’s next for Untangling Knots, but I do know this journey isn't over. As always, I’m incredibly humbled you’re here to share in wherever life happens to take me, but this quiet lull away from the computer has given me lots of time to think, focus on my family and work towards my health and fitness goals and right at this moment in time, that is where I need to be.Labels: Fitness, Thinking Out Loud |
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| Must haves |
Of all things missing in life, an adult-sized hoodie towel ranks high on my list of must haves. Right up there with a giant butt-hugging Bumbo chair. They could call it the Jumbo Bumbo and market it as the perfect pass out chair for drunk college kids who aren't quite able to sit up on their own.
 Labels: n, Nate, Thinking Out Loud |
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| Super Power |
I could feed my ultra thin three-year-old every last one of these cookies and he still wouldn't put on a single ounce. And do you know why? Because just ONE chocolate chip cookie fuels him with enough calorie-defying super powers to bounce off the walls and run Olympian worthy laps around the house.
  I want cookie eating super powers, too.Labels: Nate, Thinking Out Loud |
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| Is this mic on? |
*Tap* *Tap*
Oh, hi! Remember me? It’s me! Karla!
And I have writer's block.
Like, really bad.
I’ve been writing online for almost six years now and in all that time I can remember only once where something like this happened before. It was almost exactly three years ago to the day and my excuse back then was that I was dealing with an asshole of a puppy who would NOT STOP BITING ALREADY and had gnawed my fingers down to inoperable and fleshless bony stumps. Lucky for Samson my fingers eventually grew back and he did not have to live the rest of his life on a glue factory farm.
So um, yeah. Now that we’ve established I haven’t been writing, what exactly HAVE I been doing? Well, since January 1st I have:
- Ran almost 200km (124 miles)
- Completed level 1 and level 2 of the 30 day shred without missing a day (level three starts today)
- Not had even one drop of alcohol!?!
- Been spending more time with my son
- Registered Nate for Junior Kindergarten?!?
- Baked eleventy trillion loaves of homemade 7-grain bread
- Reduced my coffee intake to one cup a day!?!
- Increased my diet soda intake to exponential proportions
So basically I spend my days playing with my kid, working out, eating the most delish homemade bread and drinking diet coke and trying to convince myself to write.
The thing is, I can’t just sit down and will myself to write about something, anything, if it doesn’t ignite a spark under my ass to be creative. I mean, why try to force what just isn’t there, you know?
I guess what I’m trying to say is, until I get my writing juju back, I’ll probably post a lot of pictures and spend way too much time on twitter and facebook.
Labels: Thinking Out Loud |
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| Ready for answers |
I’m patiently waiting for the results of the EEG I had done last week. Patiently waiting for the results after a three month wait for the test in the first place actually. Knowing that some Neurologist has a file on their desk with answers about my brain, you know, that silly gray matter in your head that kind of drives your entire existence and why mine decided to tell my body to make me completely paralyzed from my face to my toes for 30 minutes makes me just a tad anxious, you know?
We arrived for the appointment early because rush-hour traffic was actually moving and not crawling along at a snail’s pace so I told the receptionist I was just checking in and then going to get a coffee. And she was all, “Um, didn’t you read the instructions on the back of your referral sheet?” I was all, “What instructions?” The back of my referral sheet was blank but apparently you‘re not allowed to drink caffeine before an EEG and you’re also not supposed to have any products in your hair. So I totally broke the two basic rules by showing up with a brain hyper on caffeine and a knot on my head still coated in yesterday’s hair products
The prep work seriously took twice as long as the test itself and I just have to say that having someone measuring your head and making parts all over the place to colour dots where the electrodes are going to be placed felt pretty darn nice. Kind of like when you see your stylist and they give you a wicked scalp massage while they wash your hair.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and hoo boy, let me tell you that 27 electrodes carefully measured and placed in a very specific pattern across your head is NOT ATTRACTIVE. More like extra terrestrial creepy alien being looking.
The technician, much to my surprise, could tell whenever I tensed my jaw or scrunched my forehead and kept telling me to relax. I kept wanting to tell her to see how relaxing it feels to have things glued all over your head. Oh, and let’s not forget the one electrode that didn’t want to stick to my greasy forehead so now there is a giant piece of tape there thank you very much.
One part of the EEG test was to check for epilepsy but I’m pretty sure that won’t be part of the diagnosis because the part where I had to lay in the dark with my eyes closed while flashing lights of various speeds where directed at my eyes kind of just made me feel like hitting up a night club and dancing.
At one point they did try to induce a panic attack and had me breathe very rapidly for three minutes. I felt my entire head go numb. Seriously. Apparently this is totally normal. I forgot to ask though if it’s normal normal, or normal if your head is broken normal.
I haven’t talked about this yet, but I’ve had god, I don’t even know what to call them. Incidents? Episodes? Fleeting Moments of Fuckedness? Whatever they are, they haven’t been nearly as frightening as full body paralysis because I have to be honest here people, the thought of living my life with claw-like clenched up fingers and both sides of face looking like they completely melted freaked me right the fuck out. So, thank god that whole, whatever it was, only happened once but what has happened again always starts the exact same way with the sensation that something is squeezing the back of my head. And it drives me batty because I know it’s there and it doesn’t exactly hurt, it’s just a strange feeling of pressure somewhere deep in my head and no amount of rubbing or counter pressure can fix it.
Within hours, sometimes minutes, the pressure intensifies and then my vision blurs, my skin turns salt-pale and then my fingers start to tingle. Sometimes its just a tingle. Sometimes I lose feelings in them for a bit. It just depends on, well, I have no idea what triggers it actually. I just recognize the first symptoms of its onset and then when its over spend a good few hours feeling so damn anxious about whatever the hell just happened.
The last time it happened I was sitting on the couch with Mark. I’d been feeling the pressure in the back of my neck all morning and was trying to ignore it when all of a sudden I shot up and told him, “I AM NOT OK!” After about 15 minutes of blurred vision, clammy skin and tingling in my fingers it was over.
Hardly unmanageable, but not exactly something you want in your life right?
I’m ready for answers.Labels: Thinking Out Loud |
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| Uranus |
Nate keeps telling me that when he grows up he wants to be an astronaut. He even came home from daycare one day with a picture he coloured of an astronaut and Mark was so proud of it that I think he almost cried. And then he kept forgetting to bring it to put on his desk at work for like, two weeks.
This may or may not surprise you, but Mark is a huge space fanatic, which also means he's a huge Star Trek fan and I’m constantly teasing him about how much of a nerd he is, you know, between being a computer superstar ninja and saying things to me when I ask him where he put a case of beer like, “On the Mother Ship. Resistance to beer is futile."
Oh, and then there was the time when I was swooning over a Jason Statham movie and Mark interrupted the pitter patter of my beating heart to discuss something about the speed of light. Like, hello? Can you not see that the Universe should cease to exist when Jason Stathom is kicking some serious shirtless ass?
I remember when Nate was four months old Mark would woosh him through the air pretending to explore places like Planet Dog Cheese and Planet Dad Cheese before landing on my tired ass and saying, “Look who just landed on Uranus Mom!”
And since Mark recently got every episode of every Star Trek series and movie ever made, that’s about all this family watches anymore because Nate just can’t get enough “Spaceship” or his fill of “Nebabas (Nebulas.)”
Clearly my kid has a penchant for something pretty darn cool if you ask me, and although I’ll probably miss him when he travels to Mars, who am I to limit his imagination, right? So, I bought him two 12” x 12” pieces of art for his bedroom, one of an airplane and the other a rocket ship, a giant 42” diameter remote controlled light-up sun and Solar System mobile with motorized planets that hangs from the ceiling as well as an enormous 48” x 36” Solar System art canvas. He already knows where planet Earth and our moon are, and that we live in North America. And just the other day he identified Mars.
 I totally admit all the spaceship stuff looks pretty lame pair with the lamb themed baby decor, but you know, I can’t let him grow up THAT fast.Labels: Mark, Nate, Thinking Out Loud |
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| My Purse |
I bought a cute new outfit yesterday and because I spent over $50, the store was giving away these cute little wallets. I thought, perfect! My wallet is more ancient than the dinosaurs and I could really use a new one.
Anyway, I got home and was about to make the whole switch from old to new and then after closer examination of this new wallet I just wanted to laugh because clearly, the wallet is not designed for a woman who freely admits to being a packrat and insists carrying everything with her at all times. This “free” wallet only holds six cards and has no zipper for change. Um? Hello! I live in Canada; a country where it is not unheard of to end up with $37 and 10lbs worth of coins.
And then I thought it might be a good exercise to critically analyze why the hell my wallet and purse are on the brink of exploding and then take a picture of the chaos and blog about it because that is what bloggers do, right? We divulge really weird things about ourselves and then publish it so someone can later find your website after googling why they woke up in unexplained wet clothes in a Canadian hotel and where to find freaky pictures of nipples.
I actually recently downgraded to a slightly smaller purse that does not fit a 17 inch laptop and a stock pile of diapers, and although I think tiny little purses are stylish and cute, Dude, I just can’t manage my life in six inches or less of zippered space. Especially not if I’m carting around a bottle of hand cream half the size of the Titanic and a keychain that could choke a horse.
So, yeah, my purse. Observe the chaos that is my entire identity, random Mr. Potato head nose and all.
Pictured above is:
A keychain with keys that I have no clue what they're even used for. Also attached to my keychain is a compass. I don’t even know why I have a compass considering my phone has GPS and my van has OnStar in-vehicle security response and turn by turn navigation, but the keychain thing was free and you never know when you’ll get lost in one of those massive Wal-Mart parking lots right?.
Sunglasses.
Hair clip.
Revlon Compact Foundation.
Clinique Pore Minimizer Instant Perfector.
Loreal Morning Light eye shadow.
Eye lash curler.
Oil blotting tissues (I am almost 30 and holy hell my skin is still oilier than a pubescent teenager.)
MAC Dazzle Lash mascara.
Clinique full potential plump and shine lip gloss.
Viva La Juicy hand cream.
Viva La Juicy To Go
Clinique Happy travel-size perfume.
Blistex.
Earrings I took off at my friend’s house one night and dumped in my purse.
Faux snake skin 4x6 photo album to hold treasured family photos.
Yes, yes that is a massive pile of Costco and Wal-Mart receipts.
A five dollar bill and $12.08 in change.
A Toronto subway token.
Bellagio, Mandalay Bay and two BIC pens.
Mr. Potato Head nose.
Unpaid Water and Gas Bills, Nate’s daily report card of activities from daycare.
A Lottery ticket I never checked. I’m probably millionaire and I don’t even know it.
Nathan and my library cards.
Three pre-paid photo development cards, two for three hundred 4x6 prints and one for ten 8x10’s. I lost my pre-paid 5x7 card.
MasterCard.
Bank card.
HBC Rewards card (which is totally useless because it takes half a century to get a bagel cutter and bagels come pre-cut now anyway.)
Boston Pizza gift card, which Mark and I conveniently used to imbibe in some thirst quenching beer on a sun-filled patio. I think there is like, $6.00 left.
Bulk Barn gift card. Hello yummy hard whole wheat flour and weekly wheat germ-infused homemade pizza crust tradition.
Social Insurance Number.
Health Card. I’m pretty sure I’m the last Canadian to update to the new photo identity health cards, but meh, I can’t be bothered to go and get my photo taken every five years. Kind of like I couldn’t be bothered to legally change my name when I got married and just “assumed” the name Cadeau. My health card is still under Karla McDonald and it confuses the hell out everyone when I get a prescription for Karla McDonald and then fill it for Karla Cadeau.
Sun Life health insurance benefits.
Costco. Oh how I loathe the insanity that is chaos of mile long check out line ups.
Nathan’s health card.
Nathans Social Insurance Number card.
Nathan’s Pediatrician’s business card.
Sippy cup.
Spill-proof snack cup.
Nathan’s asthma puffer.
Nathan’s Aero Chamber.
A Go Diego Go! Pull Up.
Baby wipes.
Two boxes of raisins.
A bundle of Kleenex to wipe a perpetually runny toddler nose.
Medication.
Free sample of hand cream.
Business cards for my Investment Advisor, Therapist (who, incidentally, thinks I am an extremely “private” person which totally made me smirk because I have a very non-private blog where talk about my boobs and post pictures of me in clothes from when I was ten years old.
A business card for Professional Doggie Duty Services! I was thisclose to calling them pick up my dog’s shit thank you very much.
Once Upon a Child frequent shopper card. I buy all of my kid’s clothes second hand. Also, my marketing with this company has driven clients to my photography business.
14 million trillion business cards from people I don’t know.
$50.00 in East Side Mario’s gift cards – one of my favourite restaurants. Yeah, I'm a pretty simple girl and can never get enough endless bowls of spicy pasta, salad and buttery bread.
United States calling card. Hi Angie!
Suzy Shier Prestige Card, which sounds all pretentious but it’s really just a measly 10% off all your purchases.
HTC Touch Pro phone. I know the iPhone is totally all the rage, but I’m a windows kind of chick and prefer this phone.
Karla Cadeau Photography business cards and card holder case. The case also holds the business card of my brother who I never get to see anymore because a) he never calls and b) he is going through a horribly difficult divorce.
The pink rosary that a stranger placed in my hands when I was miscarrying my second pregnancy and never leave the house without.
Ontario driver’s license, horrible mug shot and all.
Wal-Mart stickers. Enough said.
A card from the SickKids Foundation, one of the worlds most research-intensive and respected paediatric hospital and academic health sciences centres acknowledging a very generous donation in memory of Ava Marie Cadeau from my wonderful friends Beth and her husband. Every year since Ava passed away, Beth donates in her honour.
And that is pretty much my entire identity right there, eight pounds worth of leaky sippy cups, endless receipts piles and Go Diego Go! Pull Ups. I would say all that's really missing is the kitchen sink but I'm too lazy to actually wash dishes so I think a dishwasher would be more appropriate.Labels: It's All About Me, Thinking Out Loud |
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| Deciding how to decide |
When I look back at over the past five years of my life, I would have to say they have been some of the most rewarding and challenging years wrapped in a techi-coloured blanket of pride and soul-hardening devastation.
In 2004 I became pregnant, Mark and I bought our first home together and while I grew more, er, rotund, Mark grew in his career and accepted a job that allowed me to quit mine to stay home with our yet to be born daughter. We were both making drastic career decisions and life could not have felt more right.
In 2005, Ava was born and then she died and our entire life turned upside down. I never returned to my career in Toronto because I realized that I was doing that job for the money and there is nothing more profound than watching your very own child take her last breath to realize how fragile and short life truly is to be wasted doing something you don’t love.
In 2006 Nate was born and I spent his first year of life breastfeeding and sleep deprived and happier than I had ever been.
In 2007 Mark advanced in his career yet again and I introduced Nate to daycare one day a week so I could pursue my passion for the written word on a more serious level and possibly gain a few more minutes of “me time.” And then, after starting an on-location photography business in 2008, Nate began daycare two days a week and it felt awesome to be contributing financially to our family while still being able to be home with my son. Our life was changing and evolving and it could not have felt more right.
And here we are, well into 2009, Nate is two and fluently verbose and thriving and I’m approaching 30 and starting to notice fine lines and wrinkles on my face and questioning whether or not I’m truly fulfilled with where I am today. I’m craving more personal fulfillment and remembering fondly a time when I wore tailored jackets instead of hoodies and strappy heels over running shoes. I'm desiring the daily interactions with adults who do not require me to dance for them every time they pee on the potty.
So, yeah, I’m slowly toying with the idea of re-entering the workforce. But, well, I have always had a job that required 3-4 hours a day return trip commute to Toronto - Canada's business and financial capital from suburbia and I just can't possibly fathom how I could manage that anymore now that I have a child.
I’ve looked at jobs locally, here in Ajax, but there is like, nothing that matches my education and I’m cringing at how I would balance working downtown Toronto, being gone 11 to 12 hours a day and fighting through the daily grind of train delays, crowded subways, angry traffic and too-short daycare hours and, god, even just getting dinner ready and then bathing and getting Nate to bed let alone when I’ll find time to do grocery shopping.
I’m just feeling so conflicted trying to balance my desire for personal fulfillment outside the home while maintaining the sense of family balance that we’re used to.
I salute the families with parents who commute, but I can’t help wonder with fascination how you do it. How do you make it work?Labels: Thinking Out Loud |
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| Barbie |
My husband gets his hair cut by a woman he likes to call Barbie. When I asked him why he calls this woman Barbie he said because she drives a fancy sports car and has nice blond hair.
Anyway, he gets home from having his hair cut the other day and I asked him how Barbie was doing. And Mark was all, “Oh Barbie. Barbie Barbie Barbie!” And then his eyes glazed over and proceeded to roll so far into the back of his head he could see his asshole. And I think he may have said something about her blond hair and huge tits, but I don’t remember because I was too busy mopping his drool off the floor.
Apparently, Barbie isn’t just some blond with a cute sports car that cuts my husband’s hair. No, Barbie is a gorgeous woman who wears pungent perfume and short skirts with fishnet stockings.
Barbie also wears cleavage-enhancing clothing and has mile-long legs and a tiny waist and looks exactly like a perfect bombshell version of a plastic Barbie. So I'm assuming that means her vagina must be fake, too?
And then there's me - a dishevelled wife who lives in yoga pants and ties her gray-root infested hair in a perpetual messy bun and drives a car that smells like McDonald's. Just don't forget who has the real vagina and cooks your dinner loverboy.Labels: Mark, Thinking Out Loud |
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| Paralyzed |
The day started normally enough. It was Saturday and we had a showing of our house, so after doing the regular tidying up, Mark and I headed out and drove aimlessly around the neighbourhood while strangers viewed our home and Nate was in McDonald’s french fry glory with his Grandparents.
All of sudden I was struck with a wicked headache. And then the headache disappeared just as quickly as it came on and was replaced with intense waves of gag-inducing nausea. Mark and I were in the van and I yelled at him to pull over RIGHT THIS SECOND because motion was making the dry heaving and gagging worse. As Mark pulled off to the side of the road, I opened my window and took several deep breathes when suddenly it felt like someone (something?) was gripping the back of my neck. But the grip was coming from deep inside my head.
And then, within a matter of seconds, my vision disappeared and I screamed at Mark that I couldn’t see and then my fingers started to tingle and then the tingle spread into my face and then my fingers involuntarily clenched into a distorted claw-like disfigurement and both sides of my face drooped in a painfully numbing way, much like that of a stroke victim. The next thing I remember was hearing Mark’s panicked voice on the phone with a 9-1-1 operator and my entire body being in incredible pain. By this point, my legs had involuntarily stretched out and were rigidly straight. I was paralyzed.
Unlike the one-sided paralysis of a stroke though, the paralysis overtook my entire body and I was entirely cognizant of my surroundings. I didn’t understand what was happening to me but my vision had returned and I could feel the droopiness in my facial muscles and despite trying, I just couldn’t move or use my body. I kept trying to scream, “Help Me! Help Me!” Over and over again but my entire face, including my tongue, was paralyzed.
I’m not sure how, or when, but for some reason we ended up right outside our house when the EMS response team arrived. I remember hearing Mark scream, “Over here! Hurry! My wife is having a stroke.” I guess the echoes of his distress call were heard across the neighbourhood because soon I had several concerned neighbours peering in the van at my contorted face and oddly twisted and paralyzed body. I felt as equally mortified as I did freaked right the fuck out. I have a body. I have a brain. And I could not make the two of them work together.
The first EMS person to respond to the 9-1-1 call encouraged me to breathe deeply while waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Slowly, oh god, ever so slowly, the feeling in my body started to return. If you have ever had a c-section, I can only describe it as the sluggish and odd-feeling process of regaining the feeling in the lower half of your body as the spinal freezing wears off.
After about a half hour, my face returned to normal, and I could move my legs. My right pinky finger was the last part of my body to become ungnarled.
I spent a good 10 hours afterwards unable to steady the trembling shakiness in my body. My legs hurt, like I had the worst Charlie horse in the history of all Charlie horses and I could not hold my hands steady enough to drink water on my own.
The ambulance crew said I had a panic attack, and man oh man, I have had my share of panic attacks before, but never, ever anything like that.
I went to talk to my therapist the next day and he seemed to think otherwise. Panic attacks are typically characterized by a rapidly beating heart, skipped heart beats and an overwhelming feeling of anxiousness and impending doom. Dude, I was having a perfectly enjoyable child-free afternoon with Mark. I can assure you that he does not incite doom and gloom unless he farts and holds my head under the covers. My therapist suggested that I should probably have an MRI and see a Neurologist and ordered a battery of blood work to be done by my family doctor.
My family doctor seemed to also think what happened was something more than a panic attack and had me strip down and wear one of those sartorial nightmare blue paper gowns as she analyzed various parts of my body and my reflexes, which she thought were “brisk.” And by brisk, she meant holy good god this woman was lying down and I tapped her knee and she came like an inch from forcefully kicking me in the head.
Unsatisfied with her findings, she asked me not to leave her care until she could get me an emergency visit with a Neurologist. I called Mark and he bolted from work and an hour and a $90.00 cab ride later, he was holding my hand in the Neurologists office.
And that brings me to today. The episodes of blurred vision and internal squeezing in the back of my neck have happened several times since the full body paralysis episode. Sometimes it’s even accompanied with a bit of tingling in my fingers and it’s absolutely terrifying not knowing what the hell is wrong with me.
I don’t know what is going on, but I am going for an electroencephalogram (EEG) soon and someone is going to mess up my hair and put electrodes all over my scalp and make me look like something right out of a Star Trek episode so that they can analyze my brain.
I know I said this last year, but I think, after this experience, and as the anniversary of Ava’s death approaches it’s worth saying again.
Life is short. Enfold yourself in all its vivid reality, embrace it, feel it, live it.
Because you just never know what tomorrow will bring.
UPDATE: My doctor just called me, and all the blood work came back normal. I have normal blood. And all this time I kinda hoped she would tell me my blood was blue because I would love to live in a castle and have hot men wearing loincloths feed me grapes all day. Instead I'll just have to wait until June for an EEG.Labels: Thinking Out Loud |
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| Voice of a 7000 year old smoker |
I have had this annoying house guest living inside my body for what feels like an eternity plus a day with no intention on leaving. The crazy bastard makes me sound like a 7000 year old smoker that has been repeatedly punched in the face.
So far, I have hacked up a lung and a spleen and bruised my uterus from all the effort it takes to cough and blow my nose so often.
Ahh yes, The Inventible Winter Illness part...um... I forget because I’ve just had so many this year. But this is the first annoying viral infection that has caused me to mindlessly perk a pot of water sans coffee and put the milk jug in the cupboard. This is also the same kind of infection that essentially requires plenty of sleep and rest to cure, which would be fine if my toddler would agree to sit still for two seconds and abide to stringent household laws like, say, everyone who still poops their pants must go to bed by 8:00 PM.
Since it was going to take a week to get an appointment with my family doctor, I finally went to a walk-in-clinic this morning and Lo! I was told to suck it up because I have a cold just like 90% of the rest of planet earth right now and prescribed a nice big heavy dose of cough medicine laced with codeine.
Awesome! That last time I had a drug like codeine was when I had a subdural headache and thought my head was going to explode when the first attempt to stick a needle in my back resulted in spinal fluid leaking into my brain. And the time before that was when I had my bottom wisdom teeth ripped out of my mouth.
When I have my voice and semi-consciousness back, remind me to tell you about how Mark has been all trying to help me around the house while I lay in bed in a pitiful snot-induced coma and how he proudly made a point to tell me that he merged two bottles of shampoo to help declutter the shower even though our kitchen floor has been covered in seventy billion fridge magnets for over a week.Labels: Thinking Out Loud |
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| My Little Pony |
My first car was a used circa 1980 Hyundai Pony purchased by my parents for $600. I was 16 and so damn excited to have my own set of wheels that I didn’t even care about the fact that it had no power steering and that the radiator was totally shot and I had to carry spare jugs of water in my trunk to make sure the car didn’t overheat. That was back when five bucks worth of gas lasted me for an entire week and today it costs like $100 to fill my tank and then I drive around the block and the tank’s empty again.
My Dad and I spent a lot of time bonding while he taught me to drive a standard gear shift on that Pony. And by bonding, I mean me and all my incessant eye-rolling and annoyance whenever my Dad tried to tell me what to do.
But learn how to drive a standard car I did. And it wasn’t long before it was like second nature to me and the clutch and gear shift were so in sync that I could drink a coffee and eat an apple and give Mark a hand job all at the same time. I was nothing if not an efficient driver.
Where I grew up, there are two parts of town. There are those who live on the top of the big giant hill, and those who live at the bottom of the big giant hill. Mark lived at the top of the hill, and I lived at the bottom. I also grew up in a snow belt where winter driving could be pretty treacherous at times and after dropping Mark off at his parent’s house, I had more than my fair share of 2:00 am white-knuckle drives home down an ice-covered hill. But my Dad always had a solution to every problem and to help with the inevitable fish-tailing of my tiny light-weight Pony, he loaded the back on the car with a shit tonne of kitty litter bags. All the damn kitty litter. In my trunk. Go ahead and try and convince me that car wasn't bad ass.
My Little Pony was never stylish or pimped out with a thumping stereo system, but it got me from A to B, where A and B was mostly just secluded place to make out in the backseat with Mark.
And despite being a hunk of shit, that car was my teenage pride and joy right up until the day it totally broke down beyond reasonable repair and my dad decided to sell it. Parking it at the end of the driveway, he proceeded to prop a hand-written for sale sign in the windshield with a broomstick, but his knee slipped and the broomstick smashed right through the windshield.
Someone bought and hauled away my little Pony for $50.Labels: Thinking Out Loud |
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| 'Tis the season |
I’ve been feeling a bit at a loss these days when it comes to writing, because, well, everything I write here is a personal truth and for the most part, I’m so totally fine with my life being an open book. But when it comes to my family, it’s always so hard to know how to put certain things into words when there are firm boundaries to respect, you know?
And here we are, officially reigning in on the season to deck the halls and be merry, but between having a brother that has basically disappeared off of the phone and family radar and having to make difficult and ill-received decisions around Nate’s asthma, I’m stuck in a big ass sombre-hued cloud of frustration.
And because I’m too frustrated to write, and even if I could, I can’t (see above re: boundaries), I’ve been burying my disappointment in shopping malls decked in a riot of red and green-hued decorations and budget-busting size 25 waist wide leg jeans paired with colourful scarves with a hint of Parisian flair.
There may also have been a purchase of a new fancy pants smartphone and more additions to my already abundant collection of hoodies and yoga pants because lets face it, the good old days of tweed-suited adult boardroom conversations won’t be happening anytime soon. God, I can barely remember what a perfectly hemmed pair of pin-stripped pants looks like and I may as well be comfortable when I’m up to my eyeballs in neon-haired PlayDoh creatures, you know?
Fuck. Trying to do what you believe is the right thing isn’t always easy. I kind of want to run away somewhere warm and sip fruity cocktails with cute little umbrella’s pool-side. That may have been an option, except I just totally blew the budget on my own pity party shopping spree.
The new jeans were so worth it, though.Labels: It's All About Me, The Learning Curve, Thinking Out Loud |
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| Interpretive art |
When it comes to decorating, Mark and I sometimes see eye to eye, and sometimes we, and by we, I mean me, just go ahead and buy stuff and then discreetly place said “stuff” somewhere in the house and wait for Mark to notice. Which may or may not ever happen. This tactic usually works well, except for the time that I brought home 17 new picture frames that required a laser level, another level, a protractor, the Patience of Job and the intervention of a divorce lawyer to get them hung.
So the other day I came across this:
It’s a 36x46” canvas that I bought for Nate’s bedroom. Mark doesn’t like it because it’s not an accurate representation of the world. He thinks the artist is a bigot for labelling Canada and the Unites States as countries but then portraying everything else in the world as a continent. Except for the random representation of the state of Alaska. He could not understand how one state warranted so much canvas space and then made me check to make sure this painting was not endorsed as part of Sarah Palin’s election campaign.
And because I perpetually have my head in the clouds and live in a land of ribbons and puppy dog tails and toddler speak and never-ending pails of poop-filled diapers, I got defensive and was like, “Um Um? But look at all the pretty colours! And cute little Australian koala bear. Oh, and dude, how can you not love the giant fish that is larger than the entire country of the Unites States of America?
So what say you Internet? Fun art for a kid’s bedroom? Or, gross misrepresentation of the world that will eternally mess up my child’s sense of geography so bad that one day he will travel to China in search of gargantuan containers filled with take-out food?Labels: Nate, Thinking Out Loud |
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| Official diagnosis |
We’d been in the hospital for almost six hours before Nate succumbed to his exhaustion and fell asleep in my arms, mouth open in a graceful arc of calmed slumber; the pureness of his salt-pale skin and mile-long lashes contrasting against the rhythm of his pounding heart thump-thump-thumping to the artificially medicated beat of lung-opening drugs.
Breathe sweet baby, breathe.
We weren’t at our regular hospital. We tried to go there after Nate’s provider called, concerned about his breathing, but the parking lot was full, and there was a line-up five cars deep to get in. Looking back at Nate in his carseat, I knew we couldn’t wait. His breathing was laboured, evidenced by the tugging and indrawn concave hollow of his trachea, his cough was worsening to the point of retching and throwing up and he was lethargic. All of the signs we’ve been warned about that require immediate hospital care.
Suddenly feeling overwhelmed with concern, and wishing I could stall time to figure out what do to next, I made an illegal turn on a one-way street and headed to the closest hospital in the next city, with Nate’s provider on the phone as my directional guide.
I felt like I was in a fog on contradiction hell. We’ve been gently warned that Nate's recurring breathing issues are probably tell-tale signs of asthma, but how could that be? Asthma does not run my family. Or Mark’s. And we’re both pretty athletic. Asthma just doesn’t make sense. Surely there’s another explanation?
I pulled up to the hospital, hands trembling with worry and mind overwhelmed with awe at the enormity and newness of the entire Emergency Room process. In place of manually written forms and retro-coloured walls were computers and floors sparkling under the glow of fluorescently lit modern décor and seating. And when I told them that Nate was there because I felt he needed another Ventolin mask treatment, the Respiratory Therapist administered the exact same medication that I had in my purse.
“Oh! Aren’t you going to do a mask treatment? We usually visit the hospital in Ajax, and they give him the misting Ventolin mask when his breathing gets like this.”
“No, we don’t do that here,” she replied matter of factly. “Studies show that proper diagnosis, treatment, and use of the aero chamber and puffers are just as effective.”
And cue me feeling like a total asshat.
The ER doctor wanted Nate to have another X-ray to rule out pneumonia, based on his history, and I refused it. X-rays make me nervous and in his young life, I wholeheartedly feel that Nate’s had more than his fair share of them. But then, while trying to reassuringly rub my arm, he guilted me into it, saying that he understood my hesitation, but given Nate's history and current symptoms, it was only prudent. Reluctantly agreeing, Nate and I both donned our reproductive part-protecting lead aprons and proceeded with his chest X-Ray.
The results, as described by the doctor, were totally delivered with an eyebrow-raising I TOLD YOU SO and concerns of pneumonia. Pediatrics was paged to take over his case.
And friends, this is where I am finally breathing a sigh of relief because the Pediatrician that we saw explained that chest X-rays in an infant of his size are half art and half science to interpret and that Nate does not have pneumonia and after almost a half hour of discussing his history, Nate has officially been diagnosed with asthma.
While I’m not jumping for joy about this diagnosis, I am relieved that we finally have an official diagnosis and can start proactively treating Nate under the guidance of a pediatrician who has welcomed him into his personal practice to monitor him on a regular basis in a non Emergency Room setting where random doctors with random opinions are dishing out random advice about how to medicate our son.
We drove home from the hospital under the falling darkness of night and as I glanced over at Nate, the moon shinning like fire in his hair, I remembered something that I once read from a very wise woman. It’s so simple, but so true.
Don’t try harder, try different.
And different, by chance, at a different hospital really, is what we did. Now, for the first time in a very long time, I feel OK. I feel like Nate is finally going to be OK.
We have an official diagnosis, at least, and we can proceed to treat it as such.Labels: Nate, The Learning Curve, Thinking Out Loud |
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| The Good Old Days |
Sometimes I have a hard time figuring out how I've gone from there to here. And by there, I mean a carefree twenty something woman with nothing better to do then spend an hour on her hair every morning before stuffing her feet into uncomfortable pointy toed shoes and going to work and then spending $500 on clothes over lunch hour and drinking and partying away the weekend.
And by here, I mean a haggard housewife who only sometimes brushes her hair and lives in hoodies and yoga pants and fuzzy red slippers.
I just turned 29. Mark is 30. We’ve been together as a couple for over half of our lives. Every night, I sleep beside my best friend. We’re thisclose to a lot of things in life, but having more kids isn’t on the list. We’ve talked about it, but we’ve both pretty much agreed that right now isn’t the right time. Actually, to be honest, I don’t know if I have it in me to go through with another pregnancy. After Ava died, and then the subsequent miscarriage, all I could think about was getting pregnant again, but after Nate was born, that unrelenting voice went away. The nag is gone. Totally gone. My body has been pregnant three times, and I just don't know if I have it in me to do it again. I finally feel complete. I feel comfortable.
But then, it started. I began to feel ill all day all the time. And tired. And as those days wore into weeks, I started to feel phantom movements in my stomach. “When was my last period anyway?” I asked Mark the other day. I used to track my cycles in an excel spreadsheet, but promised Mark that I would never do that again after the stress it caused our marriage trying to conceive Ava. And besides, my cycles are so predictable that after over ten years of living together, Mark totally figured out that during those unstable periods of FEMALE PMS, I could so totally just unleash my inner dinosaur named BIOTCH and eat him for dinner.
My very good friends just announced they’re expecting again. I’ve known Rich and Ang for, like, ever. If you haven’t checkout out Rich’s blog yet, you so need to because his daughter Malaia is perhaps one of the most adorable kids on the planet. And Rich is a super awesome guy. And his wife, Ang, lends me her clothes and if wasn’t for her, my wardrobe would be helpless. Ang and I get together every couple of weeks to gossip and eat pizza and laugh at my shrinking mom cleavage. I still don’t get how I’ve went from an average B-cup to a nursing C-cup to a post-breastfeeding ultra mini A-cup, but at least I can drown my sorrows with Ang every other week over chocolate-chip loaded fresh baked banana bread and coffee.
I still laugh whenever I remember the time the four of us, Mark, Rich, Ang and me, went on an evening boat cruise together back in my hometown of Penetanguishene. It was totally a spur on the moment decision made after we all got piss drunk and wasted on a godforsaken number of beer pitchers (observe the bevy of beer just yonder, in the bottom quadrants on this photo, just below me sucking face with my husband-to-be.)
The boat cruise had two options: tickets with dinner and tickets without. And because we were all drunk anyway, we bought the tickets that did not include dinner so we could afford to keep drinking. But then we all got hungry as we watched the wait staff bringing out plates with piping hot grilled steaks. So Ang and I stumbled our way down the kitchen section and told them that they forgot to bring our party one plate of dinner. They apologized profusely and gave us a plate filled with steak and potatoes and salad and then handed us one fork and one knife.
Ang and I returned to our men and there we sat, the four us, drunk and having the time of our lives, passing around ONE fork and sharing our free plate of food. And when it was done, and we were all still hungry, we drew straws, and it was me who picked the short one to go back the kitchen and tell them that I was still hungry.
People. I am 5’ 4” and barely tip the scales in the three digit range. But I followed through, and was then informed to keep my "party" inline because the two mile swim back to shore in the dark would not be fun.
Oh, good timea. And even more good times! But also? Times have changed. Here we are, all grown up, apparently, with kids and mortgages and real life responsibilities. When Ang was pregnant with Malaia, it was the first baby shower I’ve attended since Ava died. I spent the entire time holding back tears but I wanted to go because Ang’s friendship means the world to me and I didn’t want to let her down. And now her and Rich are expecting their second child and I couldn’t be happier for them.
I just wish this recent pregnancy test didn’t make my uterus ache. I thought I'd made up my mind? Not that I wouldn't have been happy, just, you know, I’m not 100% ready. I’m unsure. At least for the time being. For now. I think?
 Labels: Thinking Out Loud |
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| NOT EVEN FUNNY! |
I get that making your life openly public online opens up the floodgates to unwanted negativity, I do.
I mean, I’ve been called a whore, obviously retarded and an anorexic waif. I’ve been told that I need to stop smoking crack and killing babies and that the world is better off now that there is one less white baby to pollute it.
I’ve been told that no one gives a fuck that Ava is dead and to just stop my whining a pop out a new one already. I’ve been told Ava deserved to die, and that if she wasn’t dead, I was probably too dumb not to throw her out of a window anyway.
I’ve even been told that I deserve to die for being such a bad mother and killing my own child.
I don’t talk about these things because the second you even call someone out, you’ve fuelled the fire, know what I mean? And besides, there’s an obvious level of detachment from a fly-by comment or unwelcome letters in my inbox. Why dwell on something when the easy way to fix it is to grow a thicker skin and just hit the delete key?
But things have become personal and I need to draw the line.
Whoever is sending unmarked mail to my home address needs to stop right now. It’s not funny, and this behaviour is totally unacceptable.
You win, ok? You’re scaring the fuck out of me, and you need to stop right NOW!Labels: Thinking Out Loud |
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| A sister named Ava |
As a parent, I have a natural inclination to want to protect and shield Nate from experiencing the tumultuous emotions of pain. Not necessarily superficial pain. He’s a kid. He needs to explore. He needs to fall, and tumble and rediscover the symmetry of balance between unsteady feet and too-fast toddler legs. This sort of pain is easy to handle. The uncomplicated sting of a scraped knee can easily be forgotten in the silliness of laughter and a face first fall and mouth full of carpet fibres can easily be fixed with the comforting security of a blankie and the magic of spot-healing Mom kisses.
But explaining death to a child; an inescapable fact of life that we all have to deal with at some point in time, is not quite as easy. I’ve never hid from Nate the fact that he has a sister. We’ve mentioned Ava to him before, and showed him pictures of her, but we’ve never actually told him that she died.
Children seem to have an intuitive nature about them, and on a deeper level, I’m certain Nate senses and picks up on my emotions. Maybe it’s my own narcissism, but if I’m sad on the inside and force a smile on the outside, something in his eyes tells me that he sees right through the façade.
I want Nate to know about his sister, and I want him to know that it’s ok to talk about her, but he’s not at an age where he’s ready to carry the weight of death on his shoulders. There’s a delicate balance, I believe, between the truth and protecting his innocence.
And just to complicate matters, considering death is one of life’s greatest certainties, it’s also one of life’s greatest uncertainties. Some of us believe in an afterlife. Some of don’t. Some of us believe in Heaven. Some of don’t.
As a kid, whenever someone died, I was told that they were with God in Heaven. I remember being fearful for a very long time that God might come and take me away from my family, too.
And although religion can be an instrumental beacon of strength and hope, it’s not something that Mark or I practice. This is where it can get tricky too, because there are many religious euphemisms that are actually quite hurtful to hear. And although death and religion tend to go hand in hand, I never planned to raise Nate under the teachings of one religion, and instead hope to expose him to a wide range of beliefs so that he can explore and figure out for himself what religion and spiriturality mean to him.
I also have to imagine that telling Nate his sister is in a better place, or that she is happier now would only cause some very mixed and confusing feelings when this message is coupled with the obvious sadness of her passing. If Ava is in a better place, why aren’t we happier about it?
And wouldn’t telling Nate that Ava is resting in peace just perpetuate the confusion of death and cause unnecessary anxiety for him about falling asleep and never waking up again?
Obviously, just telling Nate that Ava is “gone” isn’t ok either, because family doesn’t just go away never to come back. Tell me that's not a trust issue waiting to happen.
I don’t have all the answers today.
But it won't be long before he starts to wonder where all the flowers went, and I'll have to tell him that eventually flowers stop growing and blooming. And that one day insects stop crawling and eating.
Eventually well have to explain that his sister does not breathe or eat either. And that she doesn’t smell flowers or run and play.
Eventually, Nate will understand that different people believe in different things, and that’s ok.
Eventually he’ll be old enough to fully grasp the concept of death, and I pledge to help him navigate that journey through the sombre trenches of humanity as openly and honestly as possible while making him feel safe, loved and secure.
But for now, Nate has a sister. And her name is Ava.Labels: In Memory of Ava, The Learning Curve, Thinking Out Loud |
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