Romantic with a Capital "R"

I have a doppelganger, a strange and estranged doppelganger. One time I said, "I'm a Romantic, but I'm not romantic." He replied, "you mean, in that train travel and postage stamp way--not in that flowers and chocolate way. Romantic with a capital 'r.'" "Yes, exactly!" I was relieved he understood.

It all makes it fairly easy to please me--I have a husband who's more "r"omantic (luckily, in an effortless, not contrived, way) than I am, so I'm never disappointed in my marriage as some (many?) women are.

However, when it comes to "R"omance, I'm always mourning the loss of it in our society. I'm a fan of postcards, handwritten letters, artifacts/tangible objects, snail mail, used/vintage books, CDs with artwork in the booklets, rocks, leaves, sticks, feathers, bookshelves and photos. I'm not such a fan of digital files-easily produced, dispatched, modified, deleted, forgotten.

Of course, I recognize the utility, practicality, and convenience of technology. I'm not anti-technology; however, I find it preferable to try to preserve some sense of individualism in how we consume media and correspondence. When I was in Mongolia, it was this sense that drove me to send handwritten letters on local paper, using Mongolian stamps, sometimes with a Mongolian bill enclosed as a tangible piece of the place. But if any of the recipients preferred one of these letters to a standard email (all of which looks the same) from the unreliable, slow, sole computer in Bayangol, none commented. I still love to send and receive letters in this way. I have kept, nearly 10 years later, the letters a friend sent me from his Peace Corps assignment in Cameroon. I've kept postcards from faraway places, with defunct stamps, bundled in my desk drawer. The emails, on the other hand, from various people's vacations and stints abroad--they are forgotten and haven't been so much as glanced at since they were read for the first and only time. There's something about seeing a person's handwriting, the pen and paper and envelope and stamp that they chose, that I think reflects upon them and the relationship in a way that the billionth gmail or yahoo message cannot possibly.

Recently, a friend (who also writes letters) and I engaged in a Romantic endeavor: sitting in Anaba Tea Room and chatting for a couple hours over slowly-imbibed cups of tea. One of the things we talked about was whether technology is good/better simply because it's new, whether change is always good, and whether change should be made just for change's sake. US-style capitalism, with planned obsolesence and the creation of desire for "newness" that feeds our consumer economy, seems to have spilled into our outlook on how we learn about and share our our experiences of the world as well.

One of the products we discussed was the e-reader. I can certainly see how an e-reader would be convenient for travel, as well as for magazine subscriptions and the like. But as a bibliophile who is not only enraptured with the act of reading, but the books themselves, the Kindle, Nook, Sony E-Reader, or iPad just doesn't cut it for me. My friend agreed with me: "at the end of the day," he said, "it's stil just pixels on a screen." I know that the e-reader has done its best, thus far, to replicate the reading experience. You can still get cover art; you can even design a "bookmark." You can check out, return, and "lend" books to other e-reader devices.

But still, it comes down to the weight of things. I like the weight of a book in my hand. I have held and paged on kindles and nooks, and it's the same dead weight for every book or magazine you could possibly download. The weight of a book is part of my reading experience. How yellowed the pages are--part of my reading experience. My bookmark collection (gathered and gifted from all over the world, from people whom I remember fondly when I touch and examine these bookmarks) is irreplaceable. To walk into our family's office and be surrounded by my books on bookshelves all around--this matters to me. To be able to take one off the shelf and page through it, as opposed to hitting the same button on an e-reader over and over again--this matters to me.

The weight of things also reminds me to exercise restraint. Never a person to desire being bound by excessive things, the weight of things matters to me as a symbol of how much clutter might be in my life. What does it mean when we have endless digital space to horde and forget about? How do we relinquish attachment to the meaningless items in our collection then?

The issue of Romance came up in the past couple days again, which is why I write this. Some of my friends don't want actual books this year--they would prefer a gift certificate or gift e-book for their e-reader instead. Which, if that's what they want, I guess I will have to indulge. However, it once again makes me mourn the loss of the weight of the book I would give them, the act of paging through it or wrapping it or sending it through the mail, the loss of the handwritten card I would attach to it.

The Mandala

Every year around this time, I feel ugly. The glowing tan of summer is wearing off, my sun-streaked hair is coming in a dun brown at my scalp. Fall's preening display has succumbed to a barren brown landscape; puddles freeze over and the rivers develop icy sheens upon which the lingering waterfowl sit with their naked webbed feet, making me wish I were cold-blooded. The novely of breaking out my fall fashions has worn off as I wear the same handful of sweaters over and over again.

We haven't had our first snow yet, and for the most part, it's actually been rather blue-skied and warm here--relatively speaking. Still, the ugliness of the late fall/early winter season gets to me--a sea of Packers gear and blaze orange, dead deer strapped to vehicles, Christmas trees lashed to car roofs somehow incongruent in the snow-free landscape.

But then--but then. I come to accept the quiet and the indoors. I focus on the little things that have been overwhelmed since the bacchanal summer arrived. I get out the music that makes me reflect and dream on the beauty of the world, such my classical Spanish guitar and Latin harp albums. I notice, and appreciate, the interior--the interior of the mind and soul, the interior of living spaces, the interior of nature where many creatures lie dormant under ice and snow. I come to admire the unique pattern in which the steam rises from my coffee cup; I take in the beauty of people's attempts to celebrate the holidays without the rush and spending--the handwritten card, the visit, the late night discussion in a German bar over a warm winter drink, decorating a tree, hanging stockings...and I focus on these things until beauty blossoms from the feelings of ugliness...this is winter's mandala.

Dr Seuss, the Sunday Paper, and Other Self-Reflections

Recently, someone I considered a pretty good friend told me that he didn't understand me. It's been a wake up call--I've been in disbelief about the statement because I've always considered myself a straightforward person. Someone who is easy to read, maybe deceptively simple, unwaiveringly honest, transparent, and free from subterfuge and games. Is contemporary society really so complicated and insincere that someone genuine becomes baffling? I admit I have some major faults. I can be tactless and even critical at times. At times, I approach most things, including emotions and relationships, as if they were just one more interesting discussion topic, which has caused a few people to accuse me of being cold sometimes, or rigid in my views of fluid feelings. But all in all, I've never considered myself a complicated person.

But maybe I am more hard to read than I realized. Last night I was out with a few friends, one of whom said I was the most "academic non-academic I know." I denied it and said, "I'm a bookish theorist, which can make it seem like I'm an academic, but it's an entirely different thing." Complicated?

This morning, Esposo and I had some errands to run before Himal came home from a visit to his grandparents' house. Since it was a Sunday morning, we decided to go out for espresso first. As we sat down (I with my cortado, which the barrista told me his favorite drink to make because no one--but me--ever orders it), as Esposo and everyone else snapped open their Sunday papers, I opened my latest colorful Dr Seuss picture book and immersed myself in The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins. Complicated?! But it seems so simple, and it makes perfect sense to me....

When I saw Esposo reading the headline story on education in America, and we started an intense discusion of my fairly radical views on education...then I remembered the views I expressed on Disney movies at work the other day (how I've never liked Disney, even from a very young age, and I hate how Disney manipulates the viewers' emotions), I stopped.

"Esposo, am I a difficult person to understand? I'm not, am I? I'm the easiest person in the world to understand!"
"Actually...the normal person is not going to understand you."
"What?! That's impossible. I'm completely transparent."
"You may be transparent, but you have too much depth. The normal person cannot see to the bottom of so much depth. The normal person is not going to understand how deeply you feel about things, or understand your position on some issues."

I tell you. My world has been upset.

The Witch, the Whisper, the Scream

When I was really little, I had a recurring nightmare where a witch would drag me into the basement and lock me in a secret back room. In the dream, I would scream and scream, but no one would hear me. My voice would come out as a barely audible whisper, no matter how desperately I tried. People wouldn't look my way; they'd go about their business, and I'd wake up in a panic, panting as I tried to tell myself that such a situation was just a dream and would never happen in real life.

One of the worst feelings in the world is trying to confide in close friends or family, and being ignored, met with indifference or silence or downright lack of compassion. I realize that the competing demands and mundane tasks of modern life make whispered screams all but inaudible to those not paying attention.

Desire

My desire to see the world
has become a cat sleeping in the sun
and when there's no sun
it's curled up in the blanket of my family's love
Only when it's cold and hungry
does it wake up and prowl

Because I've seen enough of the world
to know it's better to expand one's own frontiers,
better to explore the boundaries,
better to unlock the wonder;
it's better to explore one's own province
than to nose in someone else's.

On "not all who wander are lost"

I should write something, and so this is a quick response to an article a friend posted, a friend who may or not be reading this.

I completely agree with the 3rd-to-last paragraph and most of the last paragraph.

I find "happiness" to be a relatively useless word. I don't often worry about it or talk about it, nor do I particularly shoot for it because I don't think it's something you can make happen; it's something you have to let happen.

Is "dissatisfaction" the same as "unhappiness?" I don't think so.

It's interesting to think that when people wanted to talk about the US in Nepal, the vast majority (with some notable, wise exceptions) would tell me that if only they could live in the US, all their problems would disappear and they would be happy for the rest of their lives. They truly had a hard time believing that Americans could be unhappy without some tangible outside source of sadness in their lives.

I see people searching so hard for love, peace, and/or happiness. But I most often see people find these things precisely when they stop trying so hard. Most people are happy and they don't even know it. Most people have love in their lives but some can't even see it. Most people would find peace if only they would stop churning in the tide and just listen to the waves.

When we were kids, weren't we told "if you get lost, stay where you are" (this is assuming you can't find your source, which I emailed you about)? If we frantically cast about, we may get more hopelessly lost, as well as make it harder for others to find us. Likewise, if you meet a wild animal, will you catch it by chasing after it? Or will you sit still, be peaceful, and let it come to you?

Being more fully you now than then is quite possibly a different discussion than the "happiness" question, though. Is "being you" the key to happiness? The article's author seems to admit that it is, if only she knew how. That's the remaining question in my mind, as like I said, I don't really aim for happiness and I just let it happen or let it come to me whenever it will and does.

I still believe if you can go back to your source, you can never go wrong.

Meat: A Big Sham?

I have ventured into new terrain: the meat section of the grocery store. However, I don't think I'll be making a trip there very often. I had no idea what to purchase. I felt like I was in the middle of a morgue; there was a chill in there air and flesh and body parts lay all around me in a relatively sanitary, sterile atmsophere. I was shocked at how expensive the meat was. I'm so used to relatively inexpensive grains, legumes, fruits and vegetables, and dairy products.

I should back up a minute and say that Himal finally started eating meat--sort of. I do not know how to cook or store meat, so I told Esposo that he should be in charge of this area. He's up to the task--my husband loves cooking. Esposo is what we've deemed an opportunistic/non-practicing meat eater. He'll eat if it's around, he might order it once in awhile if we're out, and if I'm going to be gone for awhile, he might cook some at home. But he's not a regular carnivore, and these tendencies pre-date our relationship.

When my brother was living in Budapest and I visited him, we went to his girlfriend's ancestral home in rural Hungary. There, her vegetarian mother cooked a small feast for the family, and picked at a few mushrooms while the rest of us stuffed ourselves (I was eating her chicken dish, as I can be lax with vegetarianism abroad--food offered to a guest should be eaten, as much as possible). I asked my brother's girlfriend about how one can be a vegetarian in Hungary, which seemed like such a meat-based cuisine, and she replied, "oh, she cooks meat for all of us. She just doesn't eat." Glancing at this gaunt woman who was grimacing and picking at her mushrooms, I saw this to be true.

Despite the grim portrait this scene painted in my mind, I thought I would follow her example. After I returned from Hungary, I made the Hungarian chicken dish for Esposo (who was Novio at the time), as a gesture of how highly I thought of him and how I was (symbolically) willing to make sacrifices to please him. But I think my attempt scared Esposo more than anything.

Thus, that was the one and only time I've cooked meat (other than seafood and eggs, which I will cook). Fast-forward several years, and we have a toddler in our midst, a toddler with a heart condition that makes his red blood/iron count on the low side to begin with. I started wondering if Himal was getting enough iron in his diet, as he tends to refuse almost all animal protein. Of course, I've been careful to include iron-fortified foods in his diet, but I still wondered if it was enough. I was relieved when we went to Irish Fest last weekend, and Himal chowed down on a corndog, corned beef, and a chicken strip. I thought this might be the completion of a diet that is otherwise extremely healthy. Until he got sick...along with Esposo. They have since been suffering from stomach "bugs" whereas I've been spared--was it the meat they ate?

Nevertheless, I chugged on in this terra nova--right into the meat section of a local store yesterday. But I ran into immediate confusion--looking at the nutritional information--4% of one's daily iron in this serving of chicken?! What?! When Rice Krispies have 50% ?!!! Why in the world would I spent so much money on chicken if it's not worth the nutritional bang for the buck? Sure, I could splurge on a more iron-rich meat, but what toddler really eats steak? Who dares to eat liver these days, the organ meat that stores all the pesticides the animal has eaten? This is not making sense to me...are people aware of the nutritional value of meats opposed to grains, legumes, veggies? All my life, carnivores have lectured me on the merits of eating meat...but I don't see their views bearing out on the labels.

Esposo also made the point that maybe Himal doesn't like "meat" yet, but the salty taste that imbued the hotdog, corned beef, etc that he ate at the festival. "Hm," I mused. If I remember 23 years or so back, I might be able to recall what a hotdog tastes like, but I've never had corned beef. I thought a nice transition would be to buy some "chicken strips." I baked them last night, but Himal refused to eat them.

This morning, I wondered what to do with the leftover chicken, and decided to make fried rice--a toddler staple around here. It's easy, it includes several food groups in one dish. I fried up some veggies and egges--standard for fried rice. I made the rice. I cut up the chicken...and then I remembered the Old Testament admonition about not cooking a lamb in its mother's milk. I don't know if it's the same thing or not--serving a grown hen in the same dish as an egg, but it reminded me of just how much I was venturing into unfamiliar ethics. I remember reading that verse in high school, when I was dating the son of a Lutheran pastor. I asked my then-boyfriend what the verse meant, and he said, "well, it's just obvious. It's unethical." But it raised so many questions in my mind--did that mean, according to the Bible, that animals have family bonds that should be respected? I still wonder about that verse.

I tend to respect meat eaters who have the courage to raise/hunt, and slaughter and process their own animals. I think if you're going to be a meat-eater, you should be willing to do that--otherwise, how will you have an accurate picture of what meat eating really is--if you always let someone else do the dirty work for you? If you give an animal a good life, and kill and eat it, I think that's awesome. If you go to the grocery store and pick out factory-farmed meat that has been raised in terrible conditions, that an undocumented, underpaid foreign worker has slaughtered and cleaned up for you in dangerous conditions, if all you ever see is the nicely-packaged meat without all the exploitation and sacrifice...I'm sorry, but I don't have a whole lot of respect for that food choice. I don't know how we're going to negotiate getting some meat into Himal's diet...I figured that sooner or later, he would go after it himself, and then we would do our best to supply him with good quality/humanely-raised meats from then on. Maybe he's not there yet. But this has been something of a practice run.

A Question of Wills

As Himal's 2nd birthday draws nigh, I've been thinking a lot about parenting lately. There are a couple of blog posts I've been wanting to write for awhile now, but like all my heady summer thoughts, they seem fragmented. I've reflected a lot on what the past year has taught me, all the hard-won lessons I've learned, and how my pespective has changed over the past year.

In the past, I've written about choice and free will, mentioning that despite our free will, there's a lot we don't get to "choose" in this life. I cited our birth families as an example. But, the more I think about it, the more I wonder if there is more of a cosmic roll call going on than we realize.

I remember when I first got to Nepal and was to live with a host family. Our program director, Manohari, had a mind-boggling list of families who had bravely volunteered to host an American college student of unknown character and hygiene. A few families had specified whether they wanted a male or female student to share their home, but other than that, there were no qualifications. I listened attentively as Manohari went down the list. I hadn't realized there would be some degree of choice involved, so I hadn't come up with any particular attributes I'd like my host family to have. The list went on and on, and still no family seemed quite right to me. After Manohari read each description, one or another of my 23 colleagues would jump on it. As he approached, the bottom, I felt a growing apprehension that I wouldn't find a suitable match.

Then, towards the very end, I heard this: "An ethnic Limbu family from the eastern hills living in Dhumbarahi. Extended family living situation involving a mom and her 2 girls and 1 boy, an aged grandmother, an auntie and uncle with a 3 year old boy, and several other people living both upstairs and downstairs. The father is away, working in Hong Kong." My hand shot up and I rushed to the front to sign my name on that line. I had found my perfect family, and perfect they were. I'm wondering lately if something similar occurs on a more spiritual level.

Today a neighbor came over with her 6-month old son. I'd never met her before, but I had many of Himal's baby clothes and toys to give her. As she entered our home, the difference between life with her child and life with my child was astounding. She nonchalantly mentioned that her husband was home "deathly ill," and the heart parental red flag went up...the unspoken code that You Do Not Come Over If There Is Illness in the Family flag. But, I sighed internally and let it go--after all, she doesn't know. Then, she proceeded to tell me that her pregnancy was completely unplanned, and she didn't even know she was pregnant until the 3rd trimester. The thoughts came washing over me in an unwanted tide...those thoughts that I try so hard to repress. But think about it--if you were me, wouldn't you think them too?! The thoughts that we had planned Himal's pregnancy so carefully and done everything "right," but he has HLHS. The thoughts that this woman didn't even know she was pregnant, didn't want children at all, and--surprise!--gave birth to a perfectly healthy baby like magic.

I looked at the baby, who was an adorable boy. At 6 months, he already weighs 18 lb (Himal is almost 2 and weighs 25 lb). The 6 month old is almost in 12 months clothes. He sits up on his own and is almost standing up on his own. The difference between the 2 experiences couldn't be greater.

Sometimes it's hard to comprehend. It's hard to comprehend why some people try so hard to have kids and can't, whereas others have kids they didn't plan or even want. But, as I looked at this mom and baby, I got the impression that having her son had completely changed her life around. There was no question that she loved her son and was a good mom to him. She might not be like me and her priorities were certainly very different, but I've come to believe that both of our sons have completely changed us internally.

I marvel at how she didn't *know.* I knew...I mean, really knew...that I was pregnant even before an early detection test would work. I bought the earliest detection test on the market and took it days before it said it would work, and the faintest pink line confirmed my knowledge. I *knew* Himal was a boy even though my family and friends all guessed he was a girl. I knew, deep down, that there was something wrong with him, despite everyone around me insisting things were fine and that all expectant moms share this worry. And I also knew that he really wanted to be born and be given every chance to fight.

And this brings me to the crux of this post. I was chatting online with a fellow heart mom a couple weeks ago--a heart mom who was asking some heavy questions about faith and God. I brought up a train of thought I've been wondering about lately. Our culture places a huge emphasis on controlling one's own destiny, exercising our individual rights, and asserting our free will. Modern Christianity also is a big proponent of the idea of "free will." And yet, our notion of "free will" seems so violated when a traumatic event happens in our lives. We didn't "choose" this--we didn't choose to give our son HLHS, and he didn't choose to be born with it...right?

Wait a second. Maybe...we did? And I'm not talking about in the Garden of Eden, when humanity chose to know good and evil alike. God knows us better than we know ourselves. He knew our souls even before we were born on this earth.

Someday, when Himal is say, 16 or so, he might scream at me, "why was I even born?! I didn't ask to be born!" But I know better. I, as his mom, *knew.* Sometimes, we parents know our kids better than they know themselves. Sometimes we remember things that for them are deeply buried in their blurry subconcious. I might then say, "I knew you before you were even born. And at that time, you told me you wanted to be born and live this life."

What if I, before I was born into this earthly body and forgot what came before, volunteered to be a mom to a child with HLHS? I can just see God calling for volunteers. Maybe volunteering is different than raw choice.

Even Jesus, who volunteered to lay down His life for humankind, seemed to have momentary forgetfulness in Gesthemane, when He begged God to take away the cup He had to drink. But God said, "I know better. I remember. You volunteered to do this."

I'm not saying I'm a god of any sort. I'm merely saying that there may be Biblical precedent for this idea.

Countless times I've heard parents talking about how their heart kids seem otherwordly, almost as if they have a more direct connection to the Divine. I've heard stories of heart kids having premonitions and heavenly messages that, if I didn't know the parent were telling the truth, I'm not sure I would believe. I've heard parents talk about some of the things their heart kids have said about God and heaven, and these things are way beyond their years and even way beyond most people's spiritual understanding. I've heard other (as we call them, "heart healthy") parents say to parents like me, "God chose to give you this child because He knew your faith would be strong enough to be their parent." But "choosing" to give us this situation...is that like God? Maybe yes, maybe no. What about Himal? He didn't "chose" this...or...is it possible that God called for volunteers and he stepped up?

I can actually picture it so perfectly.
God: I need a few special souls to be born with heart defects. You're going to have to go through operations and countless procedures and feel immeasurable pain. Everyday things will often be a struggle for you. You might not live very long. But the payoff far outweighs all that. You are going to touch a whole lot more lives than you ever dreamed. You're going to give people hope and you're going to be loved more than you can even bear it. You're going to know what really matters, and your going to show it to others. You're going to meet the most amazing people, the faces of determination and dedication, such as pediatric cardiologists and physical therapists and other special people who take interest in you and protect you. And I'll even throw this into the deal: I am going to keep you close to me, under my wing and especially tight in my palm, because I know you're going to need me a lot (and that's a good thing).
Himal (and several other voices in a chorus): ok, I think I can do that. Sounds like a pretty big adventure. Sign me up, then.

I think this is a pretty radical idea as far as Christianity goes, and maybe it's even a bit of a stupid idea. To go around saying that we chose our general lot but forgot? I don't think most religious folks would really accept it or acknowledge much Biblical basis for it other than what I've outlined. In fact, some would probably say this entire post is an indication that I'm getting way off-base, and need to start attending church again so that my spiritual ideas can be tested for truth (ie, shot down) by a body of believers. What about Job, right? No warm fuzzy notions of choice there! But I don't quite feel like Job. I feel like I've been blessed, not cursed, punished, or stricken. More on that later. But because of the theological shakiness, I do feel obliged to put in a disclaimer: this is only an idea and I do not claim it to be absolute spiritual truth.

Then again, maybe we didn't choose at all. Maybe God, knowing our souls inside and out, just *knew* that we would choose this path if we could do it over again (more on this later too), having the hindsight or the greater knowledge we will eventually have, and chose for us.

For the Record...

Raising a family, parenting, trying to keep it all straight...is hard. Few would dispute it. There's a lot to keep straight. This is the medication schedule:

8:30 am: Himal's 1st round of meds
Cat's morning pill
11:30 am: Himal's 2nd round of meds
2:30 pm: Himal's 3rd round of meds
8:30 pm: Himal's 4th round of meds
Cat's evening pill

Is it any wonder that once in awhile we realize, with horror, we've lost track of the time, or forgotten to call in a refill for 1 of many Rx's? On top of that...2 of the meds are refrigerated, so when we're not at home for one of the scheduled med times, we have to be sure to pack up a cooler and bring it with us (sometimes we realize, with horror, we've reached a destination only to have forgotten the meds at home, and have to turn back and start all over again). Keep in mind that Himal is not old enough to swallow pills, so these meds have to be made in liquid form at the pharmacy, and we in turn draw them up individually in oral syringes. We also have a pill cutter so we can give the cat her proper dose. If we spend the night somewhere, we have a lot of meds to pack up and keep cool, and we have to make arrangements to have a pet sitter come 2x/day for the kitty.

I'm not complaining...I'm just saying...as someone who could never even remember to take her birth controll pill on a daily basis, I've had to come down to earth a lot.

Sultini

I want to be more than just a receptacle for memory
a repository for stories
a teller of truths, a chronicler,
a sifter, a winnower
But I feel like a shadowy ghost

I can build a house
windows, roof and floor
four walls and door
I can light a fire
and candles against the night
offer you a place of repose
when your thoughts take flight
But nothing more

You come to me for wisdom
when the world has hemmed you in
when it pushes on all sides
and you look to the horizon
You make me an outcast, a witch
on the edge of what you see
banished to the hovel in the forest
between the village and the sea

The house is empty, bare, unfurbished
a structure you inhabit only when you wander
then you seek me, looking for words to squander
a library, an index, the wind howls through
without you it's bare bones mi amor
and nothing more

Are you ashamed, or do you want
to keep me to yourself
your little secret not quite dirty
not quite clean, but I've
grown weary of playing the role
in which you've cast me,
teller of tales, house of words
walls windows and floor
and nothing more
so there's the door :)

The jury's still out: CHDs, "developmental delays," and nutrition

The field of pediatric cardiology is relatively new. Even newer is the treatment for HLHS. Before the 1980's there were no survivors of HLHS, and even up until the mid-90's, survival rates were depressing enough to make me not even want to think about them--only about 40% for the first surgery alone. Although all fields of medicine rapidly change, there is still so much that is unknown about CHDs in general, and HLHS in particular. As more CHD'ers reach adulthood, the story continues to unfold.

All of this can leave me pretty confused as a parent sometimes. At the same time, there's something exciting about it too: I feel like I am part of history in the making, a part of something that's really dynamic and progressing at a fast rate. And yet, there is sadness too, knowing that it is already too late for so many kids who have already passed away from the silent killers known as heart defects. Sadness that in 5, 10, or 20 years, I will see technologies that could've helped my son in a much better way.

The world seems to change quickly, and in a mere 3 decades, there's a lot I can say, "it happened in my lifetime" about. However, many of these things are reflective of tragedy and stuggle. Yet, 2 of them I can say "it happened in my lifetime" about with unabashed joy: the survival of kids with HLHS (not only survival through childhood, but into adulthood, allowing people with HLHS to go to college, marry, and even see the 1st woman with HLHS to have a child of her own) and the World Series win of the White Sox :)

Thus, things in the CHD world seem to be changing more quickly than in many other areas. Still, there are questions I discuss with other parents, sometimes with vigor. The first of these is the matter of "developmental delays." Numerous studies show that kids with CHDs are at an increased risk for delays in gross and fine motor skills, speech, and eating, as well as "behavioral problems" like ADD and OCD. The risk for these problems is much greater for single ventricle children such as my son. Yet, very few outside the CHD world seem to know this, or even acknowledge it. Even when I try to tell to people I assume would or should be aware of this (like teachers, etc), it's like I'm talking to a brick wall, and I'm told to my face that my son's condition is only physical. Unfortunately, we as a culture have stereotyped and put the terms "developmental delay" or "sensory overload" in a box (popularly) to refer to children on the autism spectrum or someone with a "learning disability." In reality, children with a wide range of medical conditions and physical ailments (especially those children who have had long hospital stays) confront these issues.

The issue is complicated. At first, it was thought the CHDs themselves caused delays in other areas, but I've heard from cardiologists that the body protects the brain before anything else, and that the heart condition itself is not the cause. One recently told me that although there are often delays in the motor and speech areas, there is no actual evidence for real cognitive delays, and that the vast majory of "heart kids" catch up to their peers by 5 years of age or so. Then it was widely believed that the surgeries themselves caused the delays. The argument, quite believable, was that being on the bypass machine at such a young age, with its accompanying need to freeze the child's brain and reduce brain activity as much as possible, was the culprit. Yet, a recent study of respected cardio-thoracic surgeons reported to Children's Hosp in Philadelphia that this did not appear to be the cause, either. So what is it, really? Our cardiologist has suggested that it could be a combination of many things, including the experiences of heart surgeries and hospital stays themselves. No one has yet mentioned the possible effect of being on multiple medications from birth, but I wonder if this could be a reason. In addition, many children with HLHS have strokes during childhood, and I always worry about the possibility than many of them are too small to be noticed or diagnosed.

In any event, this is an area of research that is being worked on all of a sudden--a hot topic in the field. A cardiologist told me last weekend that, "we're learning these days that it is not enough to save a child's life through heart surgery. We also have to be good citizens and do more to find ways for them to have a higher quality of life." I am, without a doubt, glad so many are suddenly paying attention to this subject, but again, it is a bittersweet feeling, because whatever strides are made from research will certainly come too late for my own son. Even a few years before he was born, it was still pretty fuzzy that CHDer's would need PT, OT, and speech therapy services in early childhood, so I can at least be grateful that we have had the opportunity to qualify for and get these services early via the federally-funded early intervention program.

Another issue we CHD parents face some uncertainty on is diet for our "heart kids." As if we all don't get enough mixed messages about food in our country, how much more so heart families!! On the one hand, some of our children's cardiologists and dieticians are telling us "calories! add butter! whatever it takes!" Other cardiologists and parents appear to be horrified by the suggestion, because we've been so conditioned by our very own American Heart Association that "bad fats" are, well, bad for the heart--how much more so for someone with heart disease?!

Sigh, and sigh again! First of all, I apologize for offending the sense of unity and magnamity we so like to feel in the CHD world (and who can't support Jump Rope for Heart), but AHA is not really our friend. Let's not have any illusions on that matter. I will change that statement when I see AHA devote more than 1/100th of their funding to heart disease that affects children. Secondly, with their paltry 1/100th, they claim to fund research as to the "cause" of CHDs. Seriously, AHA, others much more qualified (ie, who know *anything* about CHDs) and well-funded can do this research a lot better than you. Nevermind that specialists in the field have long discounted what you say on your very own webpage--that CHDs could be all but wiped out if women stopped pesky behaviors during pregnancy--nevermind that people who know *anything* about the field reiterate over and over again that the vast majority of heart defects happen for unknown reasons, that the vast majority of "heart moms" never used drugs or had diabetes or took class D drugs during pregnancy. And even in cases where an event happened during pregnancy that is possibly linked to having a child with CHD (having a fever, virus, strep throat, or UTI), they are things beyond an expectant mom's control, and the majority of women report they did not have these problems during pregnancy. Finally, AHA is unclear about what it's talking about on the matter of heart kid nutrition: at a conference last week for heart parents, AHA had their token stand and handed me a book of "heart-healthy recipes" for kids. "Are they for heart kids?" I asked. "No," I was told. "They're for all kids." I chucked it. "Do you know if these recipes are appropriate for heart kids, many of whom are underweight and burn a lot more calories than 'all kids?'" I asked. "Um, no." I was told.

I will be listening to my son's specialists on the matter of nutrition, as well as following common sense. First of all, toddlers need fat. They need so-called "bad fats," like whole milk, for their brain development. They need calories. Heart kids need them even more--as I said, most of them are lousy eaters, and their hearts work harder, causing them to burn more calories than the rest of us. Yet, some heart parents disagree with me. They live in such a culturally-perpetuated fear of artery-clogging (a legitimate fear, but one that should be directed at sedentary adults and schoolkids, not toddlers) that they won't put butter on their toddler's green beans or give them whole milk to drink. Then again, I'm not taking my son to McDonald's or letting him have junk food, because that's not healthy for...anyone. Likewise, as always, the rule of thumb for eating anything is *moderation.* But ice cream once in awhile? Fine. Whole milk? Fine. Butter, eggs...a couple times a week, fine. Finally, going organic with the fats is a wise idea. Pesticides are stored in body fat (and of course, collect in what acts as a filter for toxins, the liver)--in us humans as well as in animals. Animals eat pesticide-laden plant products, then store the pesticides in their fat, which is passed on to those of us who eat animal fat in the form of meat or dairy.

Oh, and of course, the jury is still out about what even causes CHDs in the first place: environment, genetics, or a complex mix of both? And to that I say, "I have no idea." We do know that people all over the world, of both sexes, are born with heart defects. We do know that certain genes have been pinpointed to heart defects. We also know that the rate of heart defects is higher in certain places, such as WI, Baltimore, and China. Or how about a 4th option: completely random chance?

1 tbs of mind crumbles: A rambling continuation of the previous post

A Conversation about God cont'd

Sometimes I feel like I've seen too much, known too much, heard about too many messed up things. Is it any wonder those of my generation, and the ones younger than mine, are said to be jaded, cynical, disillusioned? We have constant access to sensationlist news, activist outrage, celebrity gossip, as well as talking heads who say a version of the same thing on the hour and streaming headlines fed across TV screens and email servers. Our propensity to relay tragedy seems never-ending. Combine this with what occurs in the course of our everyday lives. Combine this with extensive travel abroad, the bulk of it in developing countries. I feel too young to have seen what I have seen, to have read/known/heard what I have read/known/heard...if life expectancy were still 45 years, I could at least feel justified in being world-weary from time to time. But I am relatively young for my times. Then I think, "if my mind aches from even thinking about the difficult things I've seen in my own short little life, how could I possibly comprehend God's knowledge of the full extent of all the terrible things in the history of the world?" It would absolutely blow my mind and I'd probably wind up in an insane asylum...rather depressing thoughts but a perfect example of why God protects us from "the reason" for each and every evil/messed up thing that happens.

A Conversation about God

And there will no longer be heard in her the voice of weeping and the sound of crying. No longer will there be in it an infant who lives but a few days, or an old man who does not live out his days; For the youth will die at the age of one hundred and the one who does not reach the age of one hundred Shall be thought accursed. And they shall build houses and inhabit them; they shall also plant vineyards and eat their fruit. They shall not build, and another inhabit, they shall not plant, and another eat; for as the lifetime of a tree, so shall be the days of My people, and My chosen ones shall wear out the work of their hands. They shall not labor in vain, or bear children for calamity; for they are the offspring of those blessed by the LORD, and their descendants with them. It will also come to pass that before they call, I will answer; and while they are still speaking, I will hear. (NASB) Isaiah 65:19-24

M: Tonight as I was driving home, I saw a beautiful buck on the side of the road that had been hit by a car. Blood was coming out of its nose. Why do these things have to happen?
E: Because of our human greed and stupidity.
M: So it's all the fault of humans?
E: Society has deemed it necessary to have cars and roads, so yes.
M: Why are some things born just to be killed right away? Do you remember those baby rabbits at my old place that were killed by that stray cat? It was so sad. The poor mother rabbit. Why did they even have to be born at all, if they were just going to die? That incident can't really be blamed on humans, can it? Or is it because nature is out of balance due to human actions?
E: It could be, I guess.
M: But why do humans have to be like that? I'm a human, but I don't want those things to happen. I wish I could create a mode of transportation that didn't involve death. Is each and every one of us responsible, or humanity in general? I can understand that bad things happen because we live in a fallen world. I can understand that bad things happen because humans create a lot of our own suffering, as well as cause the suffering of other living things. I can even understand reasons why God would create beings who would die shortly after but who would have a tremendous and profound impact on others. What I don't understand is the seemingly senseless deaths of some creatures.
E: I'm not sure. Does God really care? I believe in God, but I've always questioned how much He cares about our individual lives. Maybe He only cares about the big picture.
M: But of course God cares!
E: Does He?
M: Of course He does. It says in the Bible that God notices when even a sparrow dies; therefore, as we were created in His image, how much more so does he notice us. He sees all. That's why I think you should eat less meat. God knows about the factory farming. He sees what is going on and He is angry when we cause his creatures unnecessary suffering.
E: You think God cares about the animals?
M: Of course He does. People did not even eat animals until after Noah's Ark, after the flood. It also says that in Heaven, there will be no more death. Eventually the wolf and the lamb will lie down together, and the lion will eat straw. God does not desire suffering or death for any of His creatures.
E: If He cares, then why doesn't He show it?
M: You don't think He does?
E: No--I mean, how does He? We don't see Him, it doesn't feel like He's around or that He cares.
M: What are you looking for? Thunder and lightning bolts?
E: Well, sure.
M: But, it doesn't matter. Because even when He did show it, people still refused to believe in Him. When Jesus was doing work on earth, in the flesh, many if not most people still rejected Him.
E: Hm.
M: You had Jesus performing miracles in front of people's eyes, but they still rejected Him. They were so caught up in the fact that the miracle occurred on the Sabbath, that legalism clouded their eyes and they said, "He doesn't fit our view of God, therefore he cannot be God."
E: Hm.
M: You see, God is always showing us He cares. He is always performing miracles. It just in ways that we don't expect, sometimes in ways we're not looking for, and because it doesn't fit our narrow, human framework, we refuse to accept them. God is bigger than our minds, than our own understanding. He is bigger than our rules. He refuses to play by our flawed human rules and tests.
E: Hm.
M: We cannot understand why these seemingly senseless things happen. We can guess, but it is only a shadow of complete understanding. Our minds are not ready to understand yet, because we're still living in the midst of it. And we are spiritual infants compared to eternity, compared to God.
E: Hm.
M: It's like Himal's heart surgeries. He is too little to understand; he cannot understand. All he knows is that these things have happened to him, and are happening, and maybe he even wonders why we as his parents do not put a stop to it. Can't we? Don't we want to? We did not desire for it to be this way. But we let it happen because it is his only chance at life. Without these things happening to him, he would die, although he does not understand that yet.
E: True.
M: We have to believe that all these things that happen will be used for greater good in the end. God will turn everything to good, and for His glory, if only we let Him. We have to believe that we will either learn why someday, or that eventually, the question of why will not even matter in the bigger scheme of things.

Unfortunately, no matter what, some will still be angry at God, although that anger is misdirected. They will ask why God didn't create a wonderful paradise for us all--forgetting that He did, and we as humans (ie, Adam and Eve, as the primordial ones) chose to leave it. Also unfortunately, there are some who will still reject the existence of God because He has somehow failed their test of what God should be. God wants us to believe in Him because He desires only good things for us. He is always inviting us to be a part of something amazing, something that will cause us to outgrow the narrow wooden beams we try to keep housing our belief system in. Although he have to step out of our comfort zone to truly follow God, it is always more than worth it to move into God's expansive mansion.

There is more than enough room in my Father's home. If this were not so, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? John 14:2

I Said Your Name

I said your name
it was a flash of light
a blinding light in my eyes
deer in the headlights
and ghosts in the moonlight
when I said your name,
a light in front of my eyes

I crossed the threshold,
lay down at the entrance,
fell asleep where I lay
and each time I said your name
a bulb went off, flash photography
lighting me up in your reflection
lightning blazing your momentary image

And I said your name all night
One syllable causing a firework
explosion of light in front of my eyes
Each time I said your name

Mended Hearts, Racing Hearts

"'Each beat of your heart is a small miracle, you know, so don't get carried away. It's a fragile, makeshift repair. Things should get better as you grow up, but you'll have to be patient.'

"There's no doubt that my clock causes me a worry or two...But mostly I'm worried about being always out of kilter. By evening, the tick-tock that reverberates through my body stops my from sleeping. I might collapse with exhaustion in the middle of the afternoon, but I feel on top of the world in the dead of the night."

--from The Boy with the Cuckoo Clock Heart by Mathias Malzieu

I wonder if this explains why Himal wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes, bursting with energy, and will want to play from about midnight until 5 am with scary wide-eyed alertness...the fact that due to my heart issue, I can feel sleepy after walking up the stairs, but wake up at 1 am not tired at all, heart racing as if the whole world were about to begin anew.

That Time of Year Again

Picking out a Mother's Day card has always been a little traumatic for me. Not only is my family not the "I love you" or the give-you-a-hug-when-they-see-you type, but my mom has always been a bit touchy about Mother's Day in general.

First of all, she hates Mother's Day cards that mention any sort of housework/domesticity, portray a harried mom, or make jokes about how much work a mom does. She hates Mother's Day cards that contain jokes, such as quips about how hard it was to raise me, or how cute and lovable I turned out to be because of her. In fact, she dislikes any Mother's Day cards that draw attention away from her as a person and make her child (ie, me), once again, the focus. On top of this, she absolutely cannot stand any of those mom-friendship cards, like the ones that say "you're my best friend." My mom has always made it blatantly clear that she doesn't think a parent's role is to be their child's best friend, or even friend in general.

Combine this with a general reticence and distate for overly-sentimental sap (which I find to have little meaning anyway), and you've basically excluded every Mother's Day card out there. There are years I have gotten desperate and given her a blank card, with a picture totally unrelated to the spirit of Mother's Day, and written my own message in. There was one year where the only card I liked was from the "Mahogany Collection" (or maybe it was the Ebony Collection)--and while my mom is not racist or even prejudiced, I could see a brief pause as she wondered why the card pictured an African American family and mentioned something about soul jazz.

In more recent years, I've gone with safe cards, like ones with flowery teapots on them and a message simply stated inside. You know, classy yet feminine, implying quietude and individuality instead of gush-n-mush or a chaos of laundry or a blinding spray of pink flowers.

This year, I faced the wall of cards before me, and giving a cursory scowl to those in either direction, marched up and started cringing with each card I read (there may have even been a time I gagged) until I found this year's choice--nice and safe, yet meaningful:

On the outside are a couple of hummingbirds milling about orange (not pink!) flowers, nicely balanced by restful green leaves. The title reads "From the two of us" (safe, because it's easier for me to hold forth to my mom when I have Shawn as my ally--you can't really get mad at your son-in-law for expressing gratitude, right?).

It opens to read "Nothing else can light our way, warm our hearts, shape our dreams...nothing else can touch our lives quite like a mom's love." Ok, this is good, Nice and universal, yet sincere.

Finally, it unfolds to "You bless our lives with a caring touch--we both hope and know that you're loved very much. Happy Mother's Day." Score!! In saying "we hope you know..." I've side-stepped a blatant and direct declaration of love.

Cuz that's how me and my mom roll.

Blind Spots

Every mammal (along with reptiles, birds, amphibians, and many fish) has blind spots in their eyes. Our eyes compensate for our blind spots, so that most of the time, we don't even know we have these ocular dead zones. Our brain fills in the blanks with a continuum of light and pattern from the rest of our visual field.

We all have our own subconscious mental blind spots, as well--things about ourselves that we don't see and don't really need to see--unnoticed areas that we fill in with the patterns of the rest of our lives and what we believe about ourselves. Usually, we don't perceive that they're there until something breaks the pattern--often when we view an unexpected mirror of ourselves in others. That revealing mirror is held up to an aspect of ourselves that challenges our assumption of contiguous pattern and seamless coherence.

I became conscious of both of my blind spots (at least, 2 of them--are there more?! Oh dear, how would I know?) right around the same time recently. The first one occurred after a conversation I had with someone about the people we used to go to church with--way back when. Whatever happened to them? What were they doing now, these working class kids from a tiny-but-sincere group of strong Christians, my first introduction to evangelical-style religion, whose names I can still easily recall after all these yers, who gave me first glimpse into what it meant to be on a spiritual journey?

In a wave of nostalgia, I did the unthinkable: I looked them up on facebook; I found a few. I brielfy tinkered with the past, as I knew looking into their lives would challenge the safe memories of them, where they remain quaint, young, charmingly earnest in their church clothes, before wearing blue jeans to church was ok, before cell phone and internet and power point made church hip.

I did not request any of them as friends. It's not that I wouldn't like to see them again, to talk to them sometime. But to actually let them in--to the person I've become--the gulf seems too wide. And here's the blind spot: the fact that I don't use my real name on facebook, whereas virtually everyone else does, is to avoid situations exactly like this one. If I used my real name, maybe 1 of them would have found me by now, and then they all would've found me...the alias is not to keep pesky high school reunion people away after all. Rather, it protects the sense of self I have created, have carved out, keeps it separate from the one of 5, 10, 15, 20years ago. It's the assumption that others who knew me then but not now can't possibily understand how I'm a Bilbo Baggins in non-hobbit form...to explain how I got There and Back Again seems like a monumental task. And so, like Bilbo, I stay a little remote and prefer to write about my adventures on the side :)

The other blind spot involves not being completely honest with myself in the area of shutting a part of myself down. You hear, from time to time, confessions of how a person, a friend or family member maybe, walled off a part of themselves in light of an event. Usually it was due to emotional trauma, a sort of betrayal, or a contradiction that proved too big for the human mind. I always find confessions to such emotional deadening incredibly tragic--like the time a friend told me when he/she went off to war, they shut a part of themself off forever. I always thought I would never let this happen to me, no matter what.

It did--sort of. Although Esposo and I always wanted just one child, I have to admit that I suddenly realized that part of what reinforces that decision is the fact that after Himal's HLHS, I walled off the part of myself that would ever chance going through something like that again. Even if I were inclined to have another child (which I'm not), there is no way I would ever allow myself to experience even the possibility, however remote, of having another child with a heart condition. I took this fear, this anxiety, and put it in some locked place so that it feels completely separate from me now. It's like it's there, but it's in such a thick leaden box that even if it tries to cry out, I am completely deaf to it. When I think of it, I picture it as a cold little lead box on the right side of my heart...like my heart is beating, the rest of it is warm, but there's this cold icy lead thing there that doesn't feel. I will never have to deal with it, ever, because I cannot deal with it, I cannot even bear to think about it other than when it's in its safe prison.

So, I'm not superior in any way to those who build their defensive walls against love, friendship, selfless and heroic wide open leave it to chance expanse, after all.

Sources of Inspiration

Several years ago, the phone jangled the early evening and I was jarred from the pile of articles and papers in which I was buried. Chai's voice was charged with odd excitement as she asked, "Guess what? There's the famous photo of Alice Liddel on display at the Art Institute!" "In Chicago?" My brain felt fuzzy, as if I'd left it in imaginary scholarly discussions.

"You know who that is, right? The photos of Charles Dodgson are on display!" She pressed.

"Hmmm...well, do you want to go down there? I could drive."

"Lewis Carroll. Alice in Wonderland." I could sense Chai was trying to be patient, as as if leading a child to understanding.

"Oh! Ok, really? Sure, let's go!" I finally got it. I could hear a mental "geez" going off in my friend's mind.

And so, on a brisk, cool day, we drove to Chicago and travelled to the basement of the Art Institute to examine the works of this mysterious figure--Dodgson. At the time, I didn't know a whole lot about him, or about the real Alice, and I as perused the photos, I could not find even a hint of the famous Wonderland they created. My conversation with Chai mostly revolved around the role of youth and childhood in the Victorian era, and what the girls' parents might have thought about Dodgson photographing their pre-pubescent daughters. Were they flattered? Uneasy?

Since then, I've read Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. While Dodgson and his photographs and stories make some others I know uneasy, scared, or even offended, I find them all fertile ground for thought.

Recently, I read Melanie Benjamin's captivating new historical novel (almost a biography, but better), Alice I Have Been, about Alice Hargreaves (nee Liddell). Benjamin is from Chicago, and in the afterword, she confesses that she found inspiration for her book at the very same display of Dodgson's photographs--the basement exhibit at the Chicago Art Institute.

What Benjamin's novel does so well is to allow Dodgson and Alice's relationship to remain somewhat liminal. While the rest of the world questions whether Dodgson was a full-blown pedophile or whether the two were "just friends," Benjamin blurs the two extremes and allows us, the readers, to keep believing the best of them--that relationships can and do exist outside of the quick labels society is so ready to assign them.

For many years, Chai was one of my best friends, starting in 9th grade and until we had a falling out in graduate school, after which I have never seen or heard from her again--a friendship span of about 10 years. She certainly is one of the closest friends I've ever had. Ours wasn't the proverbial "female friendship" of shared giggles and shopping--we didn't talk very much about men (or boys) at all. I can count the number of times we went shopping on one hand--or maybe one finger. Instead, we went to obscure foreign films, art exhibits, poetry readings, ridiculous things like country music concerts and biker bars, college hockey games once I moved to Madison. Despite living in the same city (or same state when I went to college)--we eschewed phone and email for letters--lots of them--long letters sent by snail mail. There was nothing really too "strange" about it, but we were not immune society's desire to categorize and label even female friendships--we were often mistaken for a same-sex couple. I'm not sure whether this was due to our apparent utter lack of interest in the men around us, or whether it was indeed the fact that our friendship didn't exhibit stereotypical "shop, gossip, and giggle" behavior--but I suspect it was the latter.

It was a friendship based on a lot of shared thoughts, goals, and dreams--not of love and romance, or marriage and children--but of travel, education, and self-betterment. From the time I was 18, I did go on to travel--a lot--and pursue education. But unlike Chai, I started to open myself up to the world of love relationships, dating, and marriage.

By the time we were both in grad school, we had both undergone wild transformations (college, travel, and one's early 20's will do that to a person). Chai had not travelled or worked full-time like I had, and was instead pursuing an MBA with some vigor. I was just beginning to go back to school for a master's in social sciences, something she had come to see as utterly impractical.

The fight began with a text message. I was in a business class (earning a concurrent certificate in nonprofit management) and bored to tears when I decided to see how text messaging worked, and sent one to her about not being able to meet her later that week afterall. To my surprise, I received a furious email in response. "What's wrong with you? A TEXT? Is this what our relationship has come to? TEXTING?"

And that pretty much distilled things: we had changed so irrevocably that we could not go on without addressing it. I accused her, rather tactlessly, of becoming ruthless in her desire for career and success, of feeling like she had to forsake the things we both used to love in order to present herself as a Type A. She spat back that I was melodramatic and self-centered, my head was in the clouds, and that I was selling myself short by "being in love with a white guy from Iowa." Well, I thought. That's it. So what if he's white. And I happen to like a lot of people from Iowa. It struck me as rather ironic--afterall, when I'd married a non-white guy from Nepal, I received a lot of negative reactions from others, and here I was about to marry a white guy from Iowa--and receiving negative reactions.

It was a prime lesson that no matter what we do in life, not everyone will be happy for us. In hindsight, although I am not climbing my way up a career ladder or making a competitive salary, I have become a better person. A much better person. And I am becoming a better person all the time. And who knows, maybe Chai has too. But at the time, we could not see the "better--" all we could see were the changes. If we truly, truly love someone, we desire to see them grow, change, come closer to realizing their fullest potential for well-being. Yet some relationships have so much passion that any change that we perceive takes away from our loved one's treasured qualities seems automatically bad in our own biased eyes.

Since that day, I have never seen or heard from or about Chai again. It's as if she simply vanished, but I did not dream her. Several of my friends (and husband, the white guy from Iowa) met and remember her--but they never talk about her either. It's as if her memory is little more than a fanciful tale of an imaginary best friend who accompanied me on almost every adventure from the time I was 15 until I was 25.

Dodgson and Alice also had a falling out, or at the very least, a sudden, wide, and mysterious separation. There are many theories about what caused their spectacular rift, but my personal belief is that they both "merely" underwent changes. Yet, the legend of their unconventional relationship has lived on in our culture for over a century, giving people like me the hope that something beautiful, enduring, and life-changing can happen if we are courageous enough to befriend bravely.

I find an interminable amount of inspiration in both liminality and special friendships/relationships.

Since our falling out, I think of Chai with surprising rarity--a year or more has elapsed between calling her to mind. I have no desire to find her, see her, learn what she's up to now--but reading Alice I Have Been, and the thought of our visiting the same exhibit together that inspired Benjamin's novel, has made me put the pieces of thought together. This is a relationship from which I can draw inspiration for the rest of my life.

And Easter Sunday

I thought I should write a follow-up to my last post, because Esposo and I did end up going to church yesterday, and from it I received a sense or message of healing.

While there is a place for re-telling the crucifixion of Jesus, it should be with a spirit of awe and gratitude, not one of guilt and sorrow. Because the story does not end with Good Friday. The story does not end with suffering, death, and weeping. Without suffering, the end of the story would be more death. But the Story has already been written and is known to us. The story ends in joy and life--not just life, but eternal life.

Good Friday...

is a bit of an ironic name for the day on which Jesus died on the cross. Esposo and I also found out about our son's HLHS on Good Friday...2 years ago. That Easter Sunday, my parents dragged my stunned self to church with them, thinking, I'm sure, that exposure to God's community would strengthen my spirit. Instead, it had the eerie effect of feeling like the entire service was mocking my situation...songs about "a baby born to die," Mary the mother weeping, outwardly whole and healthy families bouncing babies on their laps in my general pregnant direction...sigh.

I have not been to church since, with the exception of going to see a friend give a sermon at her Unitarian Universalist congregation.

Easter has always been a holiday of utmost spiritual importance for me, and the one day of the year I would make an absolute point to attend services. I haven't stayed away from church because I'm angry at God or anything like that...but going back to an Easter service just seems to weird, too surreal. I want to go, however...but I'm a little nervous. Not about the message, sermon, Biblical event...it's the memories of the songs and the families of that day two years ago that haunt me, by no fault of their own. Sigh.

Space to Breathe: Yoga and Lung Capacity

Yoga is the proverbial Room of One's Own of the exercise world. Practicing yoga increases both lung capacity and function. Yoga creates more space in one's body--space to breathe. Space to be. As a mom, I am always looking for some space. Pregnancy, nursing, and early bonding with our babies prepare us for the fact that we moms are going to be sharing just about every aspect of our being, and everything we possess--our bodies, our time, our energy, our resources and possessions, our attention, our very being--with our young children. As my son grew out of infancy and into the toddler stage, he needed some aspects of me less, but suddenly started to demand to share everything else with me--my food, for example. He mimics my actions and habits around the house. He wants to close the dishwasher and play with the (my!!precious!!!) coffee maker, even my make-up. He wrenches open the closet and wants to pull my clothes down. If I pull out some make-up, he immediately points and makes a grab for it. If I take a sip of (my!!precious!!!) coffee, he pulls and climbs and reaches until I put the coffee in an even higher place. Sometimes I feel like nothing is really mine anymore--maybe it never was mine. Maybe I just believed it was.

We moms know how to seek out the cramped spaces of refuge when we need to--we've all sought silence by hiding in the car, or found our only alone time of the day in the shower. But when I practice yoga--that is real space for me. I'm not a refugee but a pilgrim. I'm not fleeing, but seeking. I'm creating space inside and out--space to breathe, and space to be.

Let's Call the Sheep "Baaahb" *

Let's face it: throughout time, people have held some pretty moronic beliefs about what's good for babies and young children. When you challenge these beliefs, they might protest "but my dr says...." Oh--your dr says? Well, what did drs say on the issue 10, 20, 200 years ago--and why has the tune changed each time? And why does my dr disagree with your dr?

Very few would deny that parenting attitudes, trends, and practices are in a state of constant flux, and vary widely across cultures and points in history. Yet, by raising our children a certain way, we operate under the illusion that we are doing something timeless and "natural." Nevermind that our environment has completely changed from a couple generations before; nevermind that some of these practices are obsolete, flawed, or romanticized. Nevermind that we try to conduct certain parenting aspects "naturally" in a completely unnatural environment.

One piece of particularly Orwellian parenting "wisdom" I hear, repeatedly parroted by certain parents from some nebulous, ambiguous source, is that "it's good for babies and young kids to get sick a lot, as that means they'll get sick less later on." I think this belief is worthy of being sucked down the memory hole.

Where to even begin? First of all, babies' immune systems are not well-developed, which means that they will often be hit harder by illnesses than an adult (look up RSV, which manifests itself as a common cold in adults but can be deadly in a child under 2, or read up on whooping cough or rotavirus). The only virus I can think of that's "better" to get in childhood instead of adulthood is chicken pox. Likewise, viral and bacterial infections are much more likely to also cause ear infections in children than in adults.

Let's move on to the lack of compassion humankind often has towards children. Young children who are sick cannot take care of themselves. Often they are too young to safely take over-the-counter remedies that would alleviate their symptoms. But more importantly than that, illness takes a toll on a child's ability to learn--either by lost school days, or by virtue of the fact that it's pretty hard to learn when you're feeling miserable and exhausted. The view that children "should" get sick a lot to avoid getting sick as much in adulthood says "it's more ok for children to stay home from school, and their parents to miss work, than that child take a sick day from their job later on in life."

This view also endorses complete inefficiency. Children have a lot less control over their environment than adults do. Children are often contagion super-spreaders by no real fault of their own--they put things in their mouths, do not wash their hands, and are all-around not yet schooled in good hygiene. They have limited control over the health of their diet, home environment, and the people they spend their day with. Adults are much more effective at illness prevention--and therefore, should get sick less anyway.

People play with fire when they are sick a lot. The link between viruses and other illnesses and long-term health conditions (such as cancer, birth defects, lasting lung damage, and allergies, asthma, and other auto-immune responses) is only now starting to be undersood. By viewing mass and frequent infection in our a children as a "good" thing, we are also putting others at risk for long-term health problems and even death, including pregnant women, seniors, young babies, people with chronic medical conditions, and even perfectly healthy children and adults.

It's well-established that the price of both personal and "herd" immunity is high. Yet, as the threat of diseases such as polio and measles becomes almost an abstraction, so the collective memory fades of just how many children perished from these diseases. When I lived in Nepal, people had some immunity to waterborne illnesses, right? Sure, maybe--if they survived it in infancy. "Natural immunity" means a higher infant mortality rate across "the herd." I don't think the US would like to trade infant mortality rates or average lifespan facts with Nepal. Yet, the anti-vaccine and pro-"natural immunity" crowd romanticizes the robustness of people in developing nations--without bothering to check exactly how many die of preventable diseases each year.

Finally, this belief is simply illogical. A child does not need to *be sick* in order to build his or her immune system. When I talked to my son's pediatrician about this issue, he enlightened me to the fact that all of us are exposed to germs every single day, just by breathing. Yet, each and every germ we come into contact with does not necessarily make us ill. Also, people espouse this belief seem to neglect the fact that diseases, especially viruses, mutate so that getting a cold or flu this year does not make you immune to a cold and flu next year.

Am I saying we should live in sterile isolation--of course not. I'm saying that having perpetually (almost year-round with maybe a break in the summer months) sick children is not normal or natural. When I ask people or reflect on my own childhood, previous generations of children did not live this way. Our lifestyle practices need to change in order to match our changes in lifestyle--ie, that children get a lot less fresh air, fresh food, and exercise nowadays, and spend a lot more time in enclosed instutions and large-group settings.

I suspect this segment of the parenting population is the only one on the face of the earth who think the key to being healthy in the future is to be sick now. Unfortunately, I chalk up this parenting belief to, as is so often the case, a product of the times. As more parents have either put their children in daycare, or in school at earlier ages, they started noticing that their childre were almost perpetually ill. As some parents looked for a justification for the ill health of their children, so the rise of logic that sounds intuitive, but is faulty in reality. The key to good health for people of all ages was, is, and ever will be: good diet, good exercise, good hygiene, good environment. Ok, and some good old-fashioned luck and good genes.

*I am not, nor do I claim to be, a health care professional. These are my own personal opinions, based on my own research, beliefs, and discussion with my son's dr.

Divergence

Despite life catching up to us a bit in the past few weeks, we are so...lucky. What is the right word? Blessed? Are those who haven't been as fortunate, then, any less blessed? Where does luck come into play in life, if at all? Are we all just blessed in different ways? Should we all be equally grateful for our experiences, for what they have revealed to us, for how they have transformed us?

I am praying this morning for those whose babies are in the hospital--the babies whose lives hang by the finest of threads. For those whose dream of their family being united under one roof has yet to be fulfilled. Are these abstract people? No, these are people I have come to know and care about. People who have reached out to others who will listen, others who will pray for them and support them in various ways.

Deep in my heart, I know that at least I have this: that no matter what happens in the future, despite the certainty of at least one more open heart surgery on the horizon, my dream was fulfilled. My hope is that I will see my child come of age, even grow old, but my dream was that we would all go home and live our lives together. That at least we've had this year, more than a year now, of just living life, of just enjoying each other.

Sometimes when I log on to email or facebook, the divergence of people's experiences astounds me. One person posts about having soup for lunch, the other posts that the battle is over, his child has died. I don't even know how to connect these juxtapositions in my mind. It makes me wonder about my own words, how I can just talk about every day life when in the "update" below me, someone's life as they knew it has changed forever.

My hope and prayer is that someday, the parents whose dreams have yet to be fulfilled will have the luxury of posting about soup for lunch.

HLHS: Old Soul vs Old Before One's Time

Hopefully, this is the last in my 4-part series of "dealing" with several things that had been pushed aside in the course of life-changing events (returning from Mongolia, getting married, having a baby, our journey with HLHS, becoming a full time mom, etc). Now that the dust has settled a bit, many things have been catching up with us and demanding our attention.

One of the things I hear parents in the HLHS community say over and over again is that their experience with HLHS has aged them 100 years, or that they've aged beyond their time, that they feel an irrevocable sense of loss of their youth and are unequivocally adult now. I have a very old friend of the family whose grandson died of a CHD when he and I were teens, and when I talked to her about Himal's HLHS, the first thing she said was, "you're going to grow up really quickly now." I wasn't entirely sure what she meant, since I was already 29. Indeed, it has taken me a long time to fully understand just how having a child with HLHS can age a person so quickly. Is it the maturity required to go through something like this? Is it the stress and responsibility that ages us? Is the fact that most of us find ourselves at the crossroads of our relationships with God, spouse, family, friends-and some of these relationships grow exponentially, while others fall away--and become older, wiser souls?

It is all of these things--after standing at the crossroads with God for months, maybe even a year, my relationship with Him grew deeper and I learned truths I might not have otherwise. I became a lot closer to my parents and certain other family members, and left others behind who had no ability in them to provide even emotional support. I found out quickly who my good friends were versus who couldn't "handle something like this." I found out, and find out every day, which people in the world see light in tough situations and which do not (and by this, I don't mean those who provide cliches and false optimism, but those who see God's love in everything).

But, I've also realized that the HLHS experience has aged me in another way: I've become averse to change. Unfortunately, when it comes to change, I feel like a crotchety 78-year old lady. Maybe I have a touch of PTSD, but I've come to associate change with upheaval and disaster, filled with uncontrollable variables and unintended consequences. I've even become a bit of a Luddite, not wanting much more technological change in my life, thinking about starting a letter writing society (!), wishing I could go back and live in the 1970's!

I confided my thoughts on this to Esposo last night, because in the course of talking about the future lately, we've debated buying a house, debated going to day shift, etc--big changes--plus, I am starting to feel some anxiety about Himal's 3rd surgery. I feel like we've finally started cruising at a our status quo, we've finally really adjusted. I'd adjusted to our family being 2nd shift. Now, again, an opportunity or 2 has arisen that might allow him to go to a day shift--and while it's what we'd been wanting for awhile, suddenly the thought of yet another re-adjustment makes my stomach turn. It's the same feeling that made/makes me not want to move.

Anyway, in the course of our discussion I realized that disasters always seem to occur when I try to follow the herd, when I try to listen to what others say, when I try to tread the path that others do. Everyone keeps asking us "so when are you going to buy a house?" and suddenly we felt that yes, maybe we should, but then we realized that the only pros to buying a house would be having our own yard and being able to get a dog. I've always thought, long before the housing market crisis, that home ownership was a money pit, yet bosses and teachers would absolutely insist that I was wrong, that a home was the best economic investment one could make.

I love condo living. I really do. It allows us to have more amenities than we could afford in a home. It makes more economic sense--we don't all have to buy our own lawn mowers, for instance, we don't have to spend money on external repairs and upkeep, we don't have to make a time investment in the yard work. No, I can't have the garden of my dreams, yes, we have to deal with some pain in the neck people in the building, no, we don't have a yard for Himal. But plenty of people raise kids without their own yard--and we live close to parks, schools, and a nature preserve.

Our conversation went something like this:
M: I never imagined myself a homeowner. I don't want a frickin' lawn mower. That sounds like a nightmare to me. How lame, owning a lawn mower.
E: That's true. And we'd have to spend $ on other big appliances, and repairs.
M: Homes are money pits.
E: We'd just be another home in a row of many homes. On a block, within a row of many blocks.
M: And you'd be like some Ward Cleaver, marching off to work everyday.
E: God.
M: Would you expect me to iron your shirts and make you dinner?
E: Hell no. That's not why I married you. That's not what I want in a wife.
M: THANK GOD. That's so awesome.
E: Let's just keep living in condos.
M: Are you sure?
E: I think that's best.

That makes me feel better. Esposo and I have always done best when we do our own weird little thing, despite the pulls of convention, just being ourselves. I loved being in rural Mongolia, despite the horror expressed from some. We loved our Vegas wedding, despite the pull to include friends and family in something so personal. We love our condo, despite the "don't you think you should move to a house?" I love WI (Esposo a bit of a different story) despite "don't you think you should move someplace a bit more happening?" I love our beautiful little lakeshore town, despite "don't you think you should move closer to the city, you guys spend way too much time driving back and forth?" I love Esposo's funky work hours and days off, I am infinitely glad I chose to stay at home with Himal for awhile despite the pressures nowadays to be a working mom and "do it all."

I guess I shouldn't feel pressure to change and live up to others' expectations. But I do want what's best for all of us. I'm not quite certain if I'm being a stick in the mud, or allowing us to just be us. But I do know--I'm still adventurous...but for now, only when those adventures are temporary. When others around me either have gone or are going through changes, moving forward, why do I feel so content to just stay here? Do I lack ambition? Or do I just refuse to chase the elusive, knowing I have what I need for now?

A Ready-Made Network: No, We Can't Have Everything We Want

There are some things that defy the "if you just work hard enough, you can have whatever you put your mind to" ideology. Family is one of them. Family reminds us that there are some things we just cannot control, despite the cultural illusion that we are all masters of our own fate--other people, the weather, our genes, and actually, life. And that might be a good thing.

I grew up in a very small family, and the family that I did have around was not at all tightly knit. Like many young kids who fixate on what they don't have, I always dreamed of that warm, sprawling extended family that got together a lot, shared laughs, were there for you when you needed them. The kind that was always around, that came over on a summer evening and did cartwheels in the street with you. The big Italian family I always thought that I should have. It wasn't to be--there was no one even remotely my age in my family. The family I did have (on my mom's side) fought all the time. Most of the time, they were negative, critical, and dysfunctional. I should not make it sound like they had no redeeming qualities. They were generous in their way, and they were absolutely unpretentious. Not an ounce of snob in their bodies. My dad's side of the family was also very small, and scattered around the globe. I can count on my hands the number of times I have even talked to them, let alone have seen them.

My mom tried to make me understand that this was, in fact, a blessing. Family, she told me, came with a lot of obligations. "Being there" could be a very difficult thing--it could lead to dependence, a drain on one's emotional and financial resources. The way she saw it, I was cut free from the tethers and demands of family.

You would think that my parents would try to compensate for the lack of supportive family relationships in other ways, but they didn't. Both being introverted, they had very few friends. They were not joiners. They were not church-goers. I was the oldest of 2, so I didn't even have an older sibling's friends as a start-up network to draw upon.

I recall seeing this not as being liberating, but rather lonely. I had some friends who had large families, and I was pretty jealous. One was particularly inclusive, and they were a bit like a surrogate sprawling family, but at the end of the day, I was still always the one who felt like I was on the outside, my face pressed against a glass windowpane, not quite feeling the warmth of the fireplace crackling inside. My home life growing up was not always happy. Weekends were largely spent listening to my parents fight endlessly, with the house being torn apart and destroyed in the process, my brother and I largely pushed aside and told to go to our rooms and be quiet (or else--hitting and beating was quite common). It wasn't until I left home for college that I started to learn this wasn't normal behavior. That not everyone acted like this, and indeed, that it wasn't acceptable to do so. It wasn't until I started dating good men, the best of whom became my husband, that I realized how drama-free and wonderful a home life could be, and experienced a love relationship without constant turmoil and tension.

2 weekends ago, when my brother and his wife showed up pretty much out of the blue, having driven across the country, I was excited. I took my son to my parents' house to see them, but once again, it was not to be. The entire weekend had devolved into a disastrous fight between my brother and my parents, and I walked into a house filled with screaming.

Ever since, I have been going through my own mourning period. The knowledge dawned on me that my son will grow up the exact same way I did--with no close family. 1 set of grandparents, a couple cousins on his father's side who live far away. That's it.

But wait. There is something redeeming about all of this. For not having ready-made supportive relationships has caused me, throughout my life, to look very hard for them in other places. It has not been easy, because I was not raised with either the tools nor the resources (having a safe home for other children to visit, for instance) to make friends. I was not made with a gregarious personality, so it is a pure miracle that God has brought wonderful people over the years to me. A friend of mine happened to mention the other day the circumstances of an acquaintance who has just the type of supportive, extended family of my dreams...yet her relationships with men have been one abusive disaster after another, and she has few if any friends to speak of. Maybe not having a ready-made kin network has allowed me to fill the need for a network of people in other ways. No, I do not have anything like "a sister" in my life, and I do not consider my friends "my family," but I do know a lot of wonderful people. I have good female (and male) friends, and been absolutely blessed in having positive romantic relationships, and never having falling into destructive or abusive ones. I have a husband who is the opposite of my parents--steady, uncritical, accepting, non-judgmental, supportive.

And although Himal will grow up without the benefit of a large, loving extended family, I've come to see families as wildcards anyway. There's no guarantee that even if we were to have 6 more kids (impossible), they would be close or there for each other. But, what I CAN do is make sure he has the tools to meet an interesting variety of people. I can give him the secure and stable home environment that will make it safe for him to have friends over. And, I can protect him from the screaming and chaos that I grew up with--although I can't give him the size of family I've always wanted, I can give him the kind of homelife I think he deserves.

I have learned.

Ke cha? Life lagyo.

Well. Then. Can we say "emotional whiplash?!" No, no one's fault. It's just that life lagyo.

Before I begin, I hesitate to write another post mentioning yoga. While I doubt anyone wants to read posts on my struggles to mentally extricate capitalism from feminism, the idea of a yoga blog seems even more self-indulgent. Oh, well.

Ok, my new yoga teacher is insane! She had us attempting to do the splits in class! Downward dog is my least favorite pose. I'd rather do camel pose any day. Yet, we must do downward dog at least 20x/session. And, I like yoga for its pensive movement and deep breathing through the exercises...this instructor has us wildly switching into pose after pose before I complete a breath cycle! She barks things like "engage those abs!" and I think, "engage those abs?! What is this, pilates?!" It's like suburban chic yoga instead of the granola I know and love. Help. She is a good teacher (albeit a rather gruff New Yorker who teaches like a drill sergeant), and it's really challenging me, but it's not the holistic spirit I'm looking for. Unfortunately, I can't go back to the Thurs night class until Esposo's schedule switches back in a few weeks so that he has off Thurs nights, so I'm stuck getting up super early and trudging in below-freezing weather and ice to this one instead. It is, however, somewhat balanced by the other class I'm in: meditative exercise, which is right up my alley--though an inter-disciplinary class, not yoga proper.

Things rather spiralled out of control recently, and I didn't even realize how it had affected me until last night. I'd been sticking to my new resolve of a few posts ago--taking better care of myself, making some progress on outstanding issues that needed attention (yes, I had that dental apt--tooth luckily doesn't need fixing after all!--and had that eye exam, and that dr's apt). In fact, I'd made so much progress that I thought maybe I'd been tethering my focus and mind on too short of a leash. I released it to go off and play where it would, but instead of playing, it was like a destructive puppy that chewed up a piece of furniture.

"Life lagyo" is an expression we developed in Nepal--"lagyo" meaning approximately "touched" or "felt." But really it means "got to me." You can say "khusi lagyo" which means "I feel happiness," but it literally means "happiness touched me." You can say "disa lagyo," meaning a stomach bug touched you--ie, got to you. One day in Kathmandu, I developed a crushing headache and our program director asked me "Nepal lagyo [has Nepal gotten to you]?" I immediately burst out laughing at that, and ever since, sometimes I and my friends from Nepal talk about "life lagyo." I've always thought stress begets more stress, thus we should all avoid it as much as possible. Yet, it's not always possible to avoid it, especially when a lot of it gangs up on us as once and tries to upset our daily balance. Minor circumstances--an anonymous person slamming into your sideview car mirror and running off, losing part of this blog post when the web signal disappeared for no apparent reason, a comment on facebook setting you off--that's when you know life lagyo.

You see, for a long time now, I've been feeling like I'm not entitled to any problems/issues other than Himal's HLHS. I don't know why I feel this way--a perception, I suppose. Either due to internal or external vibes, I feel like I don't want to detract from it, or maybe that everyone has their issues and we're all sort of entitled to a very finite amount of empathy/support...I don't know. I don't hold others to that standard, though--so why do I hold myself to it? I've always been hesitant to reach out for support, even when I know there are those out there who are willing to give it. I either don't reach out at all, or I reach out to the wrong people. There are people in my life, many of them, who think I have nothing to complain about other than the HLHS--that I live a kind of pollyanna-ish existence. but this is only because I have tried so hard--so hard!--to overcome my upbringing, to avoid drama and stress, to carve out a calm family life for myself with a wonderful man, to stick to my values, to pursue that which really matters...and sometimes this makes me rather insular. Despite my sometimes aloof attitude, though, I've been blessed in my life with many good people to inspire me.

And most of the time, I don't need a lot of support--save for the area of Himal's heart condition. But in the past week, I have, though no one would really know it other than a select few, and instead of talking about it, I let other, very minor things get to me that shouldn't. I'm a firm believer that many, if not most, people don't need someone to listen to them, or someone to help them work through their issues, or someone to give them advice--they just simply need empathy. I confessed to a friend that I'd gone overboard not once, but two times, on facebook; whether I was right or wrong, I'm not completely sure (one time involving getting very turned off by ignorant "impeach Obama" b.s., the other time taking a comment personally that maybe wasn't personal, but given the person's history, I think it was)--but either way I shouldn't have gone overboard. The friend expressed nothing but empathy. And I was so grateful--it was all I needed. It's when I realized that I wasn't dealing with the stress of the past weekend very well--thus today's yoga class and this blog post are attempts. Why write this instead of talk it over with others? I don't know. It's my way of cooling down, maybe. Maybe I feel that in this age, where people expect to have "real" relationships with people through a series of impersonal status updates and comments, we don't want to be bothered with anything more personal. Maybe I feel like I'm not entitled to stress when those around me seem to be dealing with so much more--although there are times when I feel it's because I try not to act theatrical about the stress of life whereas some around me live constantly at that fever pitch of drama.

Now that the dust has settled from pregnancy/birth/2 open heart surgeries/so on, there is *so much* Esposo and I need to catch up--from talking about finances to a freakin' parenting philosophy to just settling into family and married life without crisis hanging over our heads. We've done so much organizing and strategizing since returning from FL, it's amazing. However, it wasn't easy. There was a lot to talk about, a lot to sift through. Combine this with Esposo's work schedule changing yet again, and my momentum was totally thrown off. I forgot to give Himal his medications 2x because I was so distracted with other things.

Combine this with a disaster of an extended family get-together over the weekend--the ensuing fights and upheaval that I was naive enough to believe might be avoided--the drama has left me feeling toxic ever since, and it got to me more than I realized. Combine this with some late winter cabin fever and blahs, and Himal's current "terrible 2's"/tantrum stage, and I was starting to feel like there was no escaping the screaming.

I'm dealing with internal turmoil over my own health problem--"at least it won't kill you but there's no cure and we're sorry this medication almost killed you by giving you an irregular heartbeat and resting rate of 140 bpm...." the impatience and anger I have over it, the fact that I'm not supposed to drink coffee anymore but life has no meaning to me without at least 1 cup, and therefore they will apparently have to pry that one cup out of my cold, dead hands, the fact that I don't want to deal with it, don't want to think about what happens when you have a kid with a serious medical problem and the parent has their own medical issue management to worry about. I'm dealing with worry about how and when Himal is going to find out he has HLHS--it was fine to talk about it freely in front of him, when he was a baby, but now he's getting to be an age where he will come to conclusions based on half-overheard conversations...wondering how his next surgery might interfere with pre-school plans...the knowledge that I don't want to think about it, the pressure to plan for your child in the face of uncertainty, the pressure from pediatrician and therapist to get him to say words, the pressure from cardiology and nutritionist to get him to eat more...seems never-ending when all I really want to do is let him be.

This morning, I felt exhausted from all of this. The cat woke me up an hour early, and I laid in bed, stewing with annoyance until Esposo prodded me about trucking off to the early yoga class. I reminded myself that although I felt like staying in bed for an extra hour instead, the kinder thing to do would be to go and nurture my body and soul instead of moping, so off I went. After class, I decided that it was kinder to get on that treadmill and burn some steam than let myself off easy and throw in my gym towel for the day.

And--and...I am starting to feel better. I am a happy person, despite not feeling like one for the past several days. It's ok. I had a lapse. I need to re-focus once again, need to be kind to myself and take care of myself, and stick to my new resolve.

There. I'm doing what my old yoga teacher in Madison always said, one of the best pieces of advice I've ever heard: treat your emotions like guests. Invite them in and sit down for a cup of tea with them. Then send them on their way.

Instead, I'd been letting them pound incessantly on the door for several days.

Aside: someone should get "the memo" (yes, said in all its Office Space/Mr Smith to Mr Anderson Matrix drawl) out to that subset of men out there who self-congratulate themselves for being feminists of convenience. And by that I mean--the men who like the women around them to be strong so that these women can prop him up, and then as soon as it is convenient for him, he doesn't hesitate to degrade his female friends, coworkers, or women in general whenever it serves his ego or ambitions to do so. You are chauvinists, despite believing you're not. Wait--I did just get the memo out, didn't I? Now the q: do I need to express more empathy for the faminists of convenience?