Saturday, June 13, 2009
Goodbye, old sod
We signed a contract to sell our house Thursday. It's too big, too expensive and too much work and we're tired of keeping up with it all. Paying a mortgage on rooms we don't use meant to house children who don't exist seems more and more silly, especially as we face so much uncertainty in the journalism field.
The people who are buying it are a relentlessly enthusiastic couple from Baldwin. Our realtor tells us that when they were making offers and we were countering, they called her every day to see if we'd changed our minds about what we would accept. Now that we've signed, they're still calling her every day. I'm not sure why. They've already mentally moved in all their furniture and decided which of their three children are going to have which room. Big Big Man wondered if they had a little one (they do), and if they'd keep the stencils he'd done in Little Big Man's room of alphabet blocks and our old pets Cinnamon, Geordi and Elvis.
Of course, we'll make a new home wherever we end up, our home is our family, blah blah blah. But I can't help but feel culpable in what feels like a defeat. The part of me that still wants the big house and the big yard on the nice street is the one that talked Big Big Man into buying our place six years ago, when he liked the sweet capes and more modest places we were looking at. But I wouldn't even consider them, and I ignored all the faintly chiming warning bells when we figured out what our mortgage payments would be (around 40 percent of our take-home pay) and bought a four-bedroom before we had even started trying to have kids.
So now I'm paying for it with a loss of face. We're back looking in all the modest neighborhoods we had been in before, and I lie awake in bed at night frantic about whether we can find a decent house on a decent street. We had to tell our neighbors we were selling, explaining that we needed to downsize without letting on how dire the situation could really be, and now that we've signed a contract, there may be nosey questions about price. (If I have the nerve, I'll be telling them to look it up on the Internet.)
But it's not really a disaster. We're going to make money off the deal, and we're going to use that for a down payment on the next place. And long term, Big Big Man or I could maybe work less and be home with the little guy more. That's what I'm hoping for. Between Little Big Man's five or six therapy appointments a week, working and taking care of the house (we no longer have a cleaning person or a yard crew), I feel like I can barely parent, let alone do anything for myself. I'm in the library now writing this after the morning yoga class I signed up for, because I know if I go home, there's no way I'm getting near the laptop.
So here's to a future full of less chaos and more money. Wish me good luck, cause I'm going to need it.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Career Day
7:30 a.m.: Off to high school. Totter down sidewalk in carefully chosen heels and outfit meant to convey respectability but youth and fun too. Snow whistles from sky – first day of spring.
7:33 a.m.: Realize have forgotten to bring copy of paper I work for. But cannot face walk back down block in heels lugging bag of handouts and business cards. Call husband on cell to complain.
7:40 a.m.: Arrive sporting pink ears and running nose. Helpful high school senior leads me throughout hallways on quest for copy of the day’s paper. Finds gym teacher, who loans me his. "How about for some good coverage?" he says good-naturedly. "Sure!" I grin.
7:45 a.m.: Coffee in auditorium. I slug it back and peer around. Many, many suits. No one else appears to be concerned about looking boring.
7:55 a.m.: Group photo. Blonde woman in glasses sits next to me and stares at my name tag. I stick out my hand and introduce myself. She shakes limply. "Get your facts straight," she sneers. I tell her that won’t be a problem once the paper is edited entirely by computers. Smile!
8 a.m.: Am at table with cheerful PR rep for large local university. Students filter into gym. Some actually sit at our table. I accidentally take up entire time allottment rambling about future of journalism before students are told to move on to next table.
9 a.m.: Flip open paper and use it for emphasis. Students appear interested or perhaps just very polite. Search for appropriate props at paper night before had only turned up five-foot-tall photo of Pancho Villa with Post-It stuck next to his face saying, "Adios, Amigos!"
9:45 a.m.: Crowds at our table begin to dwindle. Scent of cinnamon wafts through gym.
10 a.m.: Restaurant/hospitality industry table behind me begins serving churros out of toaster oven. Students abandon other professions in droves.
10:15 a.m.: Compliment student’s "I Heart Mr. Darcy" T-shirt. Chat about literature. Perhaps best to steer bright, informed young woman away from newspapers. Co-workers consulted night before about helpful advice to relay to would-be journalists clutched me by shoulder and said, "Tell them not to do it."
10:45 a.m.: Pick up coat and second cup of coffee from auditorium. Look for blonde woman to trip on way out. Still snowing.
7:30 a.m.: Off to high school. Totter down sidewalk in carefully chosen heels and outfit meant to convey respectability but youth and fun too. Snow whistles from sky – first day of spring.
7:33 a.m.: Realize have forgotten to bring copy of paper I work for. But cannot face walk back down block in heels lugging bag of handouts and business cards. Call husband on cell to complain.
7:40 a.m.: Arrive sporting pink ears and running nose. Helpful high school senior leads me throughout hallways on quest for copy of the day’s paper. Finds gym teacher, who loans me his. "How about for some good coverage?" he says good-naturedly. "Sure!" I grin.
7:45 a.m.: Coffee in auditorium. I slug it back and peer around. Many, many suits. No one else appears to be concerned about looking boring.
7:55 a.m.: Group photo. Blonde woman in glasses sits next to me and stares at my name tag. I stick out my hand and introduce myself. She shakes limply. "Get your facts straight," she sneers. I tell her that won’t be a problem once the paper is edited entirely by computers. Smile!
8 a.m.: Am at table with cheerful PR rep for large local university. Students filter into gym. Some actually sit at our table. I accidentally take up entire time allottment rambling about future of journalism before students are told to move on to next table.
9 a.m.: Flip open paper and use it for emphasis. Students appear interested or perhaps just very polite. Search for appropriate props at paper night before had only turned up five-foot-tall photo of Pancho Villa with Post-It stuck next to his face saying, "Adios, Amigos!"
9:45 a.m.: Crowds at our table begin to dwindle. Scent of cinnamon wafts through gym.
10 a.m.: Restaurant/hospitality industry table behind me begins serving churros out of toaster oven. Students abandon other professions in droves.
10:15 a.m.: Compliment student’s "I Heart Mr. Darcy" T-shirt. Chat about literature. Perhaps best to steer bright, informed young woman away from newspapers. Co-workers consulted night before about helpful advice to relay to would-be journalists clutched me by shoulder and said, "Tell them not to do it."
10:45 a.m.: Pick up coat and second cup of coffee from auditorium. Look for blonde woman to trip on way out. Still snowing.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Of all the ways that infertility could have exploded on the national scene, it seems incredibly unlikely that it would be through a woman who appears not to have actually been infertile.
Nadya Suleman's story is not that of a typical IVF patient who struggles to bear one child, but about someone who had 14 -- which appears to us IVF veterans way more than her fair share.
While we may be annoyed with her, one of the case's most disturbing developments is that now, various elected officials and newspaper editorial boards are making rumblings about how her case shows that in vitro fertilization needs to be better regulated.
No, thank you.
Suleman's case is only that of an outlier, nothing more, and while her doctor should be investigated by an ethics board, as California's is doing, her case should not be used as any kind of an example to pen in vitro legislation. After my trip through three infertility clinics, seeing around half a dozen doctors in the process, having doctors tell me about the possibility of multiple births and selective reduction, speaking with friends who have also undergone in vitro and reading hundreds of messages about treatments on Web sites, I can say through my own experience that I perceive doctors who are trying their best to get us pregnant, who are also very aware of the risks of multiple births, and who want to keep their patients healthy. These doctors are already overseen by their state's medical boards and in most cases they belong to the professional groups Society of Assisted Reproductive Technicians and the American Society for Reproductive Medicine, which maintain guidelines for in vitro fertilization.
There's also an informal referral network going on. Good doctors are discussed lovingly in places like IVF Connections. Bad doctors -- the ones who make you cry, who don't know what they're doing -- are thoroughly panned. Never underestimate the power of a bunch of well-educated, angry women. (Case in point: The oft-disproved and oft-resurfacing austim-vaccine connection.)
There are some countries where only one embryo can be transferred for women under 35, reducing the risks of multiple births. But the catch is that these countries also mandate in vitro coverage, in many cases three cycles, so women know that if the first cycle fails, they'll get another crack at it -- and statistics show the odds of IVF success go up over three cycles. These patients are not going bankrupt trying to pay for a single all-or-nothing cycle.
I was lucky on two counts. First, we met the income guidelines for a New York State grant that paid for two cycles. And on that second cycle, I got pregnant. However, although I was under 35, I had two embryos transferred per cycle (and the word is "transferred," not "implanted." If embryos were implanted, there'd be a lot more pregnant IVF patients.). I trusted my doctor to make the best decision for me, and it turns out she did. What if I was only allowed to have one embryo transferred per cycle? Would I have gotten Little Big Man?
IVF veterans fear that Suleman's case will end up restricting what their doctors can do to help them, and one thing IVF patients don't need is another obstacle to getting pregnant. Anyone thinking about how IVF needs to be regulated should be thinking first about how we can mandate insurance coverage for IVF, making sure every woman who needs IVF can get it, which would do far more to reduce the risks of multiple births.
Nadya Suleman's story is not that of a typical IVF patient who struggles to bear one child, but about someone who had 14 -- which appears to us IVF veterans way more than her fair share.
While we may be annoyed with her, one of the case's most disturbing developments is that now, various elected officials and newspaper editorial boards are making rumblings about how her case shows that in vitro fertilization needs to be better regulated.
No, thank you.
Suleman's case is only that of an outlier, nothing more, and while her doctor should be investigated by an ethics board, as California's is doing, her case should not be used as any kind of an example to pen in vitro legislation. After my trip through three infertility clinics, seeing around half a dozen doctors in the process, having doctors tell me about the possibility of multiple births and selective reduction, speaking with friends who have also undergone in vitro and reading hundreds of messages about treatments on Web sites, I can say through my own experience that I perceive doctors who are trying their best to get us pregnant, who are also very aware of the risks of multiple births, and who want to keep their patients healthy. These doctors are already overseen by their state's medical boards and in most cases they belong to the professional groups Society of Assisted Reproductive Technicians and the American Society for Reproductive Medicine, which maintain guidelines for in vitro fertilization.
There's also an informal referral network going on. Good doctors are discussed lovingly in places like IVF Connections. Bad doctors -- the ones who make you cry, who don't know what they're doing -- are thoroughly panned. Never underestimate the power of a bunch of well-educated, angry women. (Case in point: The oft-disproved and oft-resurfacing austim-vaccine connection.)
There are some countries where only one embryo can be transferred for women under 35, reducing the risks of multiple births. But the catch is that these countries also mandate in vitro coverage, in many cases three cycles, so women know that if the first cycle fails, they'll get another crack at it -- and statistics show the odds of IVF success go up over three cycles. These patients are not going bankrupt trying to pay for a single all-or-nothing cycle.
I was lucky on two counts. First, we met the income guidelines for a New York State grant that paid for two cycles. And on that second cycle, I got pregnant. However, although I was under 35, I had two embryos transferred per cycle (and the word is "transferred," not "implanted." If embryos were implanted, there'd be a lot more pregnant IVF patients.). I trusted my doctor to make the best decision for me, and it turns out she did. What if I was only allowed to have one embryo transferred per cycle? Would I have gotten Little Big Man?
IVF veterans fear that Suleman's case will end up restricting what their doctors can do to help them, and one thing IVF patients don't need is another obstacle to getting pregnant. Anyone thinking about how IVF needs to be regulated should be thinking first about how we can mandate insurance coverage for IVF, making sure every woman who needs IVF can get it, which would do far more to reduce the risks of multiple births.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Did I tell you about the turkey vultures? Big Big Man and I were jogging by the horse properties near his mother's house when we saw about 30 of them, perched in a dead tree no less. We'd seen three earlier, high up in a cottonwood, and scoffed at them, but they patiently ignored us. They were in exactly the same place on our return. We'll be here. Don't worry. Waiting for you.
Laveen, Arizona, is flooded by homes in shades of sandstone lapping at the feet of the mountains, but some of the old houses are still here. These are the big places with a couple of fenced acres where Big Big Man and I saw peacocks, chickens, goats, geese, donkeys, cows and horses and the buzzards all living together, apparently peaceably. The timbre of the dogs goes from yip in his mother's development to deep woof, Big Big Man pointed out.
We jogged through all of this a few days ago to a new development hard on the foothills, where construction has gotten as far as a paved road and massive steel gate. Little numbered signs mark tracts that could still be yours. As we climbed a hill, the cow-manure smell of the dairies, which refuse to give way to development, faded to the scent of damp creosote bushes. The view is killer: In the early morning sun we saw all the way to downtown Phoenix and the football stadium in Glendale, 20 miles away.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Mommy just had to have a little tiny lie-down on the couch yesterday in between bringing Little Big Man home from therapy and emptying the dishwasher before heading off to work, and Little Big Man obligingly turned down the volume of play so much that Mommy fell into a deep, deep sleep for about six and a half minutes. And when she woke up, things were quiet ... too quiet.
"Joe?" Mommy called from beneath her winter coat on the couch. It sounded like he was in the dining room. Had he discovered the laptop, which had been left on, and was now busy googling Wall-E?
Mommy reluctantly emerged from her cocoon and went into the dining room to investigate. Little Big Man was sitting in a chair gazing out the window. Clutched in one hand was a half stick of butter with teeth marks on it. Next to him was the rest of the package. He seemed peaceful, as if he were enjoying a cup of coffee or a glass of wine.
"Did you EAT that?" Mommy sputtered.
Little Big Man looked up, blissed out. "Yes," he said.
Mommy resisted the urge not to laugh, scream or run to the phone to report the incident to Big Big Man. She gently removed the butter from Little Big Man's hands and put it back in the refrigerator.
And later, when she googled "toddler butter," she found this: http://gangalike.magnify.net/video/Toddler-caught-with-butter.
"Joe?" Mommy called from beneath her winter coat on the couch. It sounded like he was in the dining room. Had he discovered the laptop, which had been left on, and was now busy googling Wall-E?
Mommy reluctantly emerged from her cocoon and went into the dining room to investigate. Little Big Man was sitting in a chair gazing out the window. Clutched in one hand was a half stick of butter with teeth marks on it. Next to him was the rest of the package. He seemed peaceful, as if he were enjoying a cup of coffee or a glass of wine.
"Did you EAT that?" Mommy sputtered.
Little Big Man looked up, blissed out. "Yes," he said.
Mommy resisted the urge not to laugh, scream or run to the phone to report the incident to Big Big Man. She gently removed the butter from Little Big Man's hands and put it back in the refrigerator.
And later, when she googled "toddler butter," she found this: http://gangalike.magnify.net/video/Toddler-caught-with-butter.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Our cat Elvis has mercifully died, leading me to wonder if I might have supernatural powers. Early this year, I asked God to preserve Hillary in the early primaries, and he did. This month, after cleaning up a liquid puddle of cat poo from the floor for about the 700th time, I asked God for Elvis to die before the new year. And sure enough, Elvis woke up on Dec. 31 extremely ill -- vomiting and unable to walk -- and the vet pronounced him unsave-able. He was put down that morning.
Elvis was a unique cat, not only in his advanced age (17) but also in his destructiveness. He was declawed early on because he shredded Big Big Man's furniture, and late in his life, got the habit of urinating on beds, couches, pillows, shoes, rugs -- anything he could dig the remainders of his claws into. Purses and diaper bags could not be left on the floor. Closet and bedroom doors had to remain shut at all times. The living room was closed off and our area rugs taken up.
He also occasionally hawked up a hairball or some undigested parts of a meal. And the poo ... oh, the poo. It came several times a day, never failed to stink up the entire house and was not always in the litterbox. Towards the end, Elvis couldn't take care of himself well, and he sometimes tracked waste around the house, onto the leather couch, for example, or left smears on our bedspread.
It was only getting worse when I made my wish. I could no longer handle spending 20 minutes every day wiping down a floor with damp paper towels and bleach solution or scooping litter.
And yet, we didn't want to put him down while he still had some fight in him. We took him to the vet at least a dozen times in the past year, where he was prescribed eight different medications for his thyroid and the poo problem. Some of the ones for the poo worked for a short time. Still, Elvis kept chugging along, eating, drinking and crapping, giving and asking for love. The night before he died, he hopped onto the bed and climbed on Big Big Man's chest, walking up his body until his nose was in his face -- his same routine every night for years. When I got home, Elvis was curled up next to Big Big Man -- on my pillow. Did I mention that I'm also allergic to cats?Elvis had a tough childhood. He was accidentally abandoned by a careless pet sitter in his youth and left to fend for himself on the streets of Tucson in 110-degree heat for two weeks, and the experience changed him forever from a hunka burnin' love to the hyper-skittish cat who wouldn't even remain in the same room with me until I'd been around for six months. And then, in his old age, which lingered on and on, he lost his dignity, his ability to groom himself. We couldn't just throw him away. How could we do that when we ourselves hope someone will treat us with care and compassion when we're old and gross?
We're petless now for the first time in at least a dozen years. And we're taking a break. I'd love another dog, a mild middle-aged pal ... but Elvis was enough cat for a lifetime.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
I’ve ignored every year the fact that my father is going to drive home drunk from whatever holiday function he goes to, because I can’t figure out what to do about it. He won’t let his wife drive home. He refuses rides. If someone takes away his keys, he rages, kicks garbage pails and tries to slug guys a third his age (see the party of July 4, 2005), shouts insults (see the wedding of October 2008 and, oh yeah, my wedding) and generally acts like a 3-year-old.
I think the drinking is accelerating some mental decline, or causing it. He’s gotten incredibly weird, even for him. At the October wedding, I watched him sneak away to the bar all night. As we left, the last ones to go (I was trailing him with the idea of taking away his keys), he grabbed half-empty drinks off tables and sucked them down. He picked up one cocktail glass that had been left outside on a sidewalk and was covered in ants. He peered at it and put it down. The valet brought his car, Big Big Man got into the front seat to drive and Dad pitched a fit. But the keys were still in the ignition, and with surprising reflexes, he reached in and grabbed them. Then we gave up, because there was no way we were getting those keys back without a fight, and I was terrified the bridal party would sweep out into the waiting limo parked a few feet away and the bride’s last glimpse of her reception would be of a drunken, raging relative -- or worse, he’d get in her face. We drove in our separate cars out to the road, where he pulled over and wouldn’t start driving until we were out of sight, no doubt because he didn’t want us to tail him or know where he was going so we couldn’t call the police on him.
Should I have done more then? Probably. Should I have faced this whole problem a long time ago? Yes.
For Christmas, I’m not expecting much better behavior. He’ll be at my cousin’s. I don’t have Christmas at my house. If I did, it would be dry, as all my family gatherings have been since we moved into this house because of my father. So there’s the question of what I’m obliged to do when I’m not the host. I can guarantee that my cousin doesn’t want a confrontation with flashing lights, peering neighbors and someone hauled off in handcuffs.
I tried calling my employer’s Employee Assistance Program hotline. I didn’t get many ideas. The therapist told me that I could give Dad ultimatums, but they would all go out the window once he started drinking, and I knew he would drink. He suggested I call the police for assistance. I spoke to an officer who said calling the cops would be the right thing, but there was no guarantee they could find his car after he left.
I still have no solution. It’s frustrating. I would have loved to resolve this through a series of phone calls, like a scheduling conflict with Little Big Man’s doctors.
The one factor I haven’t explored is Dad himself. I could try having a conversation with him about all this, but I wouldn’t expect it to go well. He doesn’t think anything’s wrong. He thinks he should drive no matter how much he’s drunk, and he won’t even acknowledge having drunk anything, anyway. I’d love to think that I could demand he stay dry at the party or I won't show up, but that wouldn’t work with him. I’m going to go to an Al-Anon meeting tomorrow and see if anyone has any suggestions.
I think the drinking is accelerating some mental decline, or causing it. He’s gotten incredibly weird, even for him. At the October wedding, I watched him sneak away to the bar all night. As we left, the last ones to go (I was trailing him with the idea of taking away his keys), he grabbed half-empty drinks off tables and sucked them down. He picked up one cocktail glass that had been left outside on a sidewalk and was covered in ants. He peered at it and put it down. The valet brought his car, Big Big Man got into the front seat to drive and Dad pitched a fit. But the keys were still in the ignition, and with surprising reflexes, he reached in and grabbed them. Then we gave up, because there was no way we were getting those keys back without a fight, and I was terrified the bridal party would sweep out into the waiting limo parked a few feet away and the bride’s last glimpse of her reception would be of a drunken, raging relative -- or worse, he’d get in her face. We drove in our separate cars out to the road, where he pulled over and wouldn’t start driving until we were out of sight, no doubt because he didn’t want us to tail him or know where he was going so we couldn’t call the police on him.
Should I have done more then? Probably. Should I have faced this whole problem a long time ago? Yes.
For Christmas, I’m not expecting much better behavior. He’ll be at my cousin’s. I don’t have Christmas at my house. If I did, it would be dry, as all my family gatherings have been since we moved into this house because of my father. So there’s the question of what I’m obliged to do when I’m not the host. I can guarantee that my cousin doesn’t want a confrontation with flashing lights, peering neighbors and someone hauled off in handcuffs.
I tried calling my employer’s Employee Assistance Program hotline. I didn’t get many ideas. The therapist told me that I could give Dad ultimatums, but they would all go out the window once he started drinking, and I knew he would drink. He suggested I call the police for assistance. I spoke to an officer who said calling the cops would be the right thing, but there was no guarantee they could find his car after he left.
I still have no solution. It’s frustrating. I would have loved to resolve this through a series of phone calls, like a scheduling conflict with Little Big Man’s doctors.
The one factor I haven’t explored is Dad himself. I could try having a conversation with him about all this, but I wouldn’t expect it to go well. He doesn’t think anything’s wrong. He thinks he should drive no matter how much he’s drunk, and he won’t even acknowledge having drunk anything, anyway. I’d love to think that I could demand he stay dry at the party or I won't show up, but that wouldn’t work with him. I’m going to go to an Al-Anon meeting tomorrow and see if anyone has any suggestions.
