New Chapters

Chapters in many of my favorite books end with cliffhangers.

The police kick down the door and rush in.

She opens the mailbox to find, not the bills she expected, but a note from him!

The pirates tie the blindfold over his eyes and push him onto the plank, as the cabin boy throws off his mask and shouts, "Not so fast!"

End of chapter.

I'm supposed to put down the book and go clean my room.

But in my life, chapters don't end with cliffhangers, they begin with them.

My parents decide we will be moving to Morocco right after my 16th birthday.

The doctors grab my newborn baby and rush out of the room.

My husband calls from jail in tears to ask me to bail him out.

And a new chapter begins.

New chapters often look dire at the beginning. As Louis L'Amour once said, "An adventure is just something you wish wasn't happening to you." And as my mom used to say about the U-Haul motto, An Adventure in Moving, "Who wants their move to be an adventure? I want our moves to be as unadventurous and straight forward as possible!"

This from someone who once bought a mini-van from a mail-order catalog, had it delivered to a dock in Amsterdam, and drove with her husband and 6 kids through Europe to Morocco to set up house.

Very unadventurous. ;)

Today I find myself, once again, at a chapter opening.

I open an innocent-looking email to find a copy of the employment termination notice for my ex-husband.

I have no idea what this new chapter will bring. Pirates and damsels in distress? Or resourceful maids and happy endings?

Let the chapter begin.

Long Time, No Write

What have I been up to?

I moved. I unpacked. I lost my toaster. I bought a new toaster. I found my old toaster.

I left hundreds of books in Virginia because I didn't have space for everything in one moving van.

I accepted 12 chickens from a neighbor in my new town and watched Peter learn how to care for them, gather eggs, chase them around the yard, and throw his arms around me and tell me his life is complete now that he has chickens.

I looked around my new house and thought how strange it is that my ex won't ever see this house.

I went back to Virginia for a court date on September 15th and was granted a permanent protective order.

I killed a spider the size of Vermont who was living in my bathtub. (I have a large bathtub.)

I figured out what my neighbor meant when she asked if I was putting up. me: "Putting up with what?" Pause. her: Putting up fruit? Light goes on. "Oh! Yes! I bottled apricot juice and peaches with my mom!" I didn't tell her this was the first time in my life I'd "put up" anything, and that my peaches looked pathetic.

I enrolled my children in (GASP!) school. First one. Then another. Then another. I went home, sat at the kitchen table and wondered what on earth I had just done.

I ate so many raspberries that I made myself sick. I didn't know that was possible.

I wrote an entire novel in about a week.

I tried to plan a trip to Yellowstone, but remembered the kids were in school and we couldn't go anywhere.

I watched as Naomi walked out the door in the morning, turned and said with a smile, "I have a backpack, a lunchbox, and a locker. I get to ride the bus and go to science class. I feel like a normal kid!" And I wondered if this made me happy or sad.

I watched baby David while Rachel and Mike went to the temple with Mike's younger brother.

I agreed to paint the set for Cinderella before finding out exactly how big the set is and how soon they want it done. (Holy Cow.)

I took Bethany, along with Elizabeth, to the (brand new!) recording studio at BYU and helped her record a couple of songs for her album. We laughed and figured things out and scrunched in a tiny room and worked for hours and hours 'till our brains hurt.

I discovered that I LOVE (as much as I thought I would!) having a fireplace in my bedroom!

I had Joshua's birthday dinner at my house with All My Kids!

I helped my mom cut out pieces for the (insane!) quilt she's making. It's going to be amazing.

I cried when people asked where my husband is, and what I do. I discovered that a single mom is supposed to work. Not just write novels.

I realized we have deep window sills, so we can put candles in the windows for Christmas and I smiled for a week.

I hosted parties for kids from BYU, kids from school, and anyone else who showed up. We've had bonfires, roasted marshmallows, carved pumpkins, watched movies and had a jolly good time.

I watched the sun set, smelled newly mown alfalfa, picked sunflowers, fed apples from our tree to the horses down the road, watched bees get drunk on apricot nectar, discovered grapes growing on the fence, watched the kids play soccer in the backyard, made bouquets of hollyhocks and snapdragons, gathered eggs, picked pumpkins, and wondered...

Is this really my life?

And I thanked God that things can be so wonderful. =)

The Hunt for the Perfect Location

I will be moving soon, to an as-yet-undisclosed (and undiscovered) location. What am I hopping for? Perfection. That's it. Not much, really. Only one word. 10 letters. But, perhaps I should be more specific. What is perfection in a living location?

--Low cost of living. Housing, food and gas prices that are at the lower end of the national average, along with a community college that is either free or very close to free for highschool students. (Yes, Virginians, there is free college for highschool students in some states.)

--Nice people. Friendly, well-educated. This presupposes a low crime rate. Criminals may be friendly with each other, but I really don't want my kids hanging out with gang members. Preferably many of these nice people will homeschool their kids and enough of them will be LDS that my kids have a good dating pool to choose from.

--Not Too far from my family members at BYU. This could perhaps be an extension of "Nice People." =) I like my kids, my parents and my siblings. And grandparents are a good thing for children to have around!

--Lots of trees, no billboards. Think of the mama duck (I think it's a duck) on Bambi (I think it's Bambi) who says, "Green's good for the eye!" (Or wait. Was that The Ugly Ducking? Anyway, you get the idea.) Trees make me happy. Billboards make me feel like white trash.

--Fun Stuff to Do. Nearby activities that are kid and family friendly and either free or pretty darn close to free is big on my list. This could include museums (think Smithsonian), hiking, fun parks, lakes and rivers for boating/canoeing, etc.

--Easy Homeschool Laws. Some states make it easy to homeschool your kids. Some seem to have forgotten who gave birth and who didn't. I like Alaska, where, if I understand correctly, the state assumes your child will be homeschooled unless you tell them otherwise. If anyone finds a way to move Alaska a little closer to CONUS, please let me know.

--Really, really good church congregation. One with a good assortment of happy, non-cliquish teens, where home and visiting teaching happen, ward parties are fun because the people like each other, and members are generally thrilled to be with their friends on Sunday and at YM/YW. If they happened to have a Girl's Camp that was comparable to Scout Camp, I might never leave.

I think this pretty well sums it up. Do you happen to know where I am describing? 'Cause if you do, please contact me ASAP! The hunt for the Perfect Location is on!

Yes, but-

What if I look under the bed

To make sure they are only figments of my imagination

And they leap out

Splitting my ears with their roars

Tearing my face with their claws

Spilling my blood

In pools

On the bedroom carpet

?

Solid Ground

I never notice

Stepping onto the shore

After a day on the lake

In my canoe

But after a night on the sea

In hurricane storms

I fall to my knees

Clutch the grass in my hands

Press my face to the dirt

And thank Almighty God

For the blessing

Greater than I could have imagined

Of solid ground

What's Up?

People have been asking what's up in my life lately, and... well... frankly I don't have time to answer all of them because of what's up in my life lately. So, a quick blog post will have to do.

I turned on my computer tonight and found an email from my attorney that read, "You're divorced!" I stared at it for several minutes wondering if I was going to feel anything. Apparently not. But now you all know.

What else has been going on? I'll see if I can remember. My car has just recovered from a month out of commission during which time my dishwasher and kitchen sink quit working, the court lost my divorce documents, my kids psychiatrist lost his medical license, Bethany had two ear infections, Naomi was uninvited to attend our church's youth group, the bank deposited my money in someone else's account, I got stranded out of town with no way to get home, an animal died somewhere in the garage (or in the walls of the garage), and the garage door fell off.

I'm pretty sure I'm missing several major things, but this is all I can remember right now.

My apologies if I've been behind in emails, phone calls, or neighborly chats. It's not that I don't love you. I just can't remember what I'm doing. Oh yes. And we're moving.

Somewhere.

Else.

Rebecca =/

The Miracle of the Cell Phone

Something like this past week at our house must have inspired The Series of Unfortunate Events. You know-- that book series about a family who goes through so many horrible things it's completely unbelievable?

But in the midst of broken car parts, a broken dishwasher, wrong car parts, a broken disposal, cracked car parts, a doctor whose license was revoked, mountains of paperwork, missed appointments, and more car troubles... a miracle occurred.

Bethany lost her cell phone and we turned the house upside down and inside out searching for it. I'd offered major rewards for it's recovery (to motivate Peter and Naomi to search- and search they did!) We'd stationed people all over the house, and called and called Bethany's number, even though the ringer was turned off, hoping it might make its self known to us. We'd prayed and prayed to know where to look. But nothing was working. We went through trash cans and old boxes no one had opened for years. It appeared that, along with all the other stress of the week, the phone was gone.

A couple of nights ago Bethany and I were up late. She asked what she was going to do about her phone, and I told her there was not much we could do. I can't afford to get a new one. We'd just have to do without. We both went up to bed feeling depressed.

A moment later Bethany was shouting, "Mom!" in a voice that made my blood run cold. Had she found one of the cats dead on her bed? This would fit with the week far too well. "It's going to be all right!" she sobbed. I opened my door and there was Bethany with her cell phone in her hand.

"You found it?"

"I was praying again, telling Heavenly Father I really need help and asking Him to help me find it. And then I heard it ringing! I went into Joshua's room and there it was, under my drum set, ringing."

N0w let me just say, her ringer was turned off, no one was calling, and the only alarm set on the phone was for several hours earlier. But it rang when she prayed.

We hugged each other and cried. And for some reason, I knew she was right. Everything will be all right.

=)

Recovering from Surgery and some Serious Misconceptions

Yesterday I stood up and s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d! My arms, my legs, and even my ABS! Oh the joy! The sheer elasticity of it all! Oh yes- recovery is good.

It's been a long time coming. Frankly, I didn't believe my doctors when they said, "six weeks for recovery." I mean really. Who takes 6 Weeks! to recover?

Me.

I went into this thinking I'd take no pain meds and be up and running... oh... maybe a week later. I didn't expect to do CrossFit the day after surgery or anything. I'm not stupid. I'd give myself a good 4-5 days to recover.

Then I woke up after surgery.

My first thought: Ow.

My second thought: Oh! Really OW!

My third thought: HOLY COW! Get me some morphine NOW!!!

I slammed the nurse call button and felt myself starting to cry-- which was NOT a good idea. Crying uses abdominal muscles. (A fact I'd never considered before) The more I hurt, the more I started to cry, the more I hurt, the more I cried... The worst (and fastest acting) vicious cycle I've ever been caught in.

The nurse- a short Asian woman- informed me in halting English that she couldn't give me anything more for pain because, "You ah sensitive to pain medicine."

Shocked stare from me. My thoughts: "I'm the one who told you that! And apparently I'm not THAT sensitive, because I am about to DIE from PAIN!"

What I actually did: Stare at the ceiling and try to remember some Lamaze breathing from my ancient past in order to live. Focus. Relax. Breathe.

When I could talk I told her to go get an anesthesiologist. She argued for a moment until I turned my head away from my focal point on the ceiling. We made eye contact and she saw the terror in my eyes. "I go wake him up."

Yes. Good idea.

I came home from the hospital with Tylenol 3 and a renewed appreciation for narcotics. But I still didn't take the whole recovery thing seriously. I mean, how hard could it be?

For the first two weeks my Mom was here and I was able to rest. And rest. And rest. And at the end of those 2 weeks, I was feeling pretty darn good! I was certain I was basically recovered. Isn't it amazing what Moms can do?

When she left, I figured the vacation was over and it was time to get back to real life.

And so I got up, walked around, drove all over town (which is what I do- did you know driving uses your abs?), went tutoring (we DO need the money), and generally refused to rest until my body gave me no choice. Thankfully, several people brought in dinner for us, so after I'd exhausted myself, I could collapse with dinner and not have to stand up to prepare food for my 3 teens. Can I even begin to tell you how wonderful these meals were?

Nope. I can't.

As I am nearing the end of my 6 weeks, I humbly acknowledge my former complete incomprehension of what recovering from major surgery meant. It means Rest. As in, lying down (fixed that grammar mistake for you Mom!), not getting up to answer the phone, let the dog in, or go to see daughter X's amazing Lego creation. It means Saying No to things like tutoring, driving to the grocery store, and taking kids to activities. It means Accepting Help from people who offer it. Even when you are a bit obsessively independent. And it manes accepting My Own Mortality and coming to grips with the fact that sheer will-power can't force damaged cells to regrow any faster. (Darn it all!)

I was asked to speak in church on Sunday. (As in- give the sermon- for those of you who are not LDS) I think people at church are afraid I've gone inactive and am dropping into apostasy. Who misses church for 6 weeks in a row?

People recovering from major abdominal surgery. That's who.

I told them I could do that, as long as I don't have to give a traditional Mother's Day talk. I hate going home from church on Mother's Day feeling depressed because I am apparently the only mother in the world not ready to be taken up to Heaven in a Chariot of Fire. But MOTHERING, as in taking care of people who need help-- THAT I can talk about.

And recovery.

Tattooed Angel

I was doing it again.

Telling myself I'd fill up the car after one more errand. And then forgetting. Again.

I pulled into the garage and realized I'd have to get gas before I went to get my mom from the airport. There was no way I'd make it there and back. The Out-of-Gas light had been on for almost 2 days.

And then I forgot. Until I was on 95, in the HOV lanes, just about to the Franconia exit, and the car started not responding, the dashboard lights lit up, and I realized I had forgotten one time too many. Dang it!

In case you're not form Northern Virginia, a word about HOV lanes might be in order. These lanes are blocked off with cement barriers-- dedicated lanes with limited access and very limited exits. It's not like you can pull over and be anywhere. Except still stuck in the middle of the freeway.

I began to pray out loud. "Please let me get to a gas station. Please, please, help me get off this road and to a gas station." I looked through the darkness at the exit in front of me. Uphill and around a curve. Both things that require more energy than my car had left. I pictured myself walking up the hill in the dark, talking to my mom on my cell phone as I explained why I was late to pick her up.

Why had I not filled up? And now I was expecting God to bail me out?

Yes, pretty much. At least I was hoping He might.

I prayed harder.

Now, in case you are wondering (and if you know me very well, you are not wondering. you already know) ... this was not the first time I'd run out of gas in my Prius. I'm sorry to say, I was already well-acquainted with what my little car could do on battery power alone. The answer is: Not Much. A few hundred feet if the road was level. No corners. Definitely no hills. Unless we were coasting down them.

I got to the hill saying, "Come on! Please let me make it!" And the car kept going. And going! Right up the hill... and around the corner! The light at the top of the hill changed to yellow and my car actually picked up speed and made it through the light! I couldn't figure it out. I wanted to look behind me to see who was pushing, but I was too busy praying and looking for a gas station.

There wasn't one. I was on Franconia and took the first exit-- downhill-- praying all the way that a gas station might appear in front of me. I had never taken this particular HOV exit before and wasn't sure exactly where it ended. And then suddenly I was at...

the metro stop?

Oh crumb. I knew exactly where I was. And I was pretty darn sure there was no gas station anywhere nearby. "Come on! Keep going! Please help me keep going!"

The car slowed and coasted to a stop just before,but not quite in, a stripped bit of the road where I could safely leave it. I put the car in neutral, opened the door and tried pushing it 50 feet into the safe zone.

Ha. Right. Like I can push a Prius.

I looked up and there was a guy. One guy. With a backpack. Walking up from the metro. I waved and said, "Excuse me? Could you help me push my car into that stripped area?" (technical term)

He pushed and I steered and we got it out of the way of oncoming city busses. I got out to thank him and he said, "Run out of gas?" (Nope. I just like pushing my car around.) "Do you have someone coming to help you?"

Now, I'd ben thinking about this, and I'd already decided I was not calling for help. I was far enough from home that it would take anyone as long to get to me as it would for me to hike to a gas station. Besides, talk about embarrassing. I'm not a damsel in distress. I can handle it. Whatever "it" is.

So I said, "No." And he gave me an Are-You Kidding? look. I shrugged. "I can walk." He pulled his backpack up onto his shoulder and said, "I just live right there," pointing to the apartments across the street. "And I have a gas can. Give me a few minutes. I'll be back." He had a cigarette tucked behind one ear, a knit cap on his head and an impressive array of tattoo artwork across his arms and neck. I considered the situation. "Are you sure?" He nodded. "I promise. I'll be back. Give me 15-- no, better say 20 minutes. I really will be back." I considered the possible things he might be back for, but at the same time felt certain this was fine. He was just a helpful guy with a gas can. Not a rapist. I smiled. "Thank you. That would be really good."

I got back in my car and looked at the time on my phone. 20 minutes. I turned off my lights so the battery wouldn't die and watched busses swerve to avoid hitting me. And I thought. How had I made it here? Up the hill, around the corner, through the light, off the main road, onto a safe bit of ground, right in front of a guy who lives across the street with a gas can.

Wow.

My phone rang and it was my mom. Surprise! Her plane had landed early! I was embarrassed to tell her where I was, but she took it in stride. Perhaps she knows me. I told her a guy had gone to get a gas can. I didn't mention the cigarette or the tattoos. I pulled out my wallet to see how much cash I had. Since my bank account had $0, I figured I'd better be prepared to offer this guy something for his troubles, while making sure I had enough left to get gas to make it home.

At 21 minutes I saw him in my rearview mirror. He was in a car and he pulled up in front of me and jumped out, gas can in hand. "I ran to the gas station and got a couple of gallons." I stared at him for a full 30 seconds before I remembered to say, "Thank you!" and open the gas cap. He poured in the gas while I stood by feeling silly and noticing his tattoos were of Celtic patterns. Not that I'm a fan of tattoos, but if I were...

He finished with the gas and I pulled out my wallet. "How much can I pay you?" "Nothing." I laughed. "No really," I said. "You ran home and to the gas station and bought gas. At least let me pay you for the gas." But he shook his head. "No. It's all right." He gave me directions to the nearest gas station, told me to have a good night, and was gone.

I drove to the gas station and put in a couple more dollars' worth, all the while thinking how he didn't look anything like I'd pictured angels, and wondering about the angels sent to push my car up the hill, around the corner, through the light and right in front of this guy. Do they have tattoos too?

Brave Girl

Twenty-one years ago today was... Amazing.

I was going into the hospital to be induced, and the night before I'd gone into the baby's room to pick out an outfit- something cute to bring her home in. Except that... I didn't think I was going to be bringing her home. I held up one outfit after another, unable to shake the feeling that had been with me for months. Something was not right. This baby was not going to come home with me in any of the cotton sleepers I was trying to select. I thought of leaving them all home. But what if I was wrong? What would I tell the nurses and doctors if I had nothing for her to wear? I chose something and shoved it in my bag. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe everything would be just fine.

One long night and about 5 hours of labor later, baby Elizabeth was born. She was beautiful and she cried with healthy lungs and I kept saying "Is she all right?" "Is she ok?" over and over as they washed her and dried her and handed her to me.

I held her and looked at her. She was here! She was--

Someone took her from me, saying she was too blue and needed to be suctioned. But it took too long, and suddenly there were people everywhere. Doctors, more doctors, and they were calling for help, and they took my beautiful baby and ran out of the room. All of them. And I lay there on the bed. Alone in the delivery room. And waited. And wondered what was happening.

I reached for the bedside phone and called my mom. I told her the baby was born, but during our call my o.b. came back in the room. He said "Something is wrong with her heart. I think it might be transposition of the great vessels, but I'm not sure. They've called for a helicopter. I'll send someone to get you." And then he was gone. I stared at the door. At the empty room. Hadn't I told him something was wrong with her heart? Hadn't I asked him to check? He'd said everything was fine. That all mothers are nervous about their baby being healthy. I thought of the cotton sleeper in my bag.

My mom and I cried together. And after I hung up I waited. And waited. I finally got up out of bed and made my way into the hall. Down the hall. Holding the wall for support. Because if my baby was going to be flown out on a helicopter, I was going to see her before she left.

A nurse saw me making my way down the hall and gasped, "What are you DOING?!" She grabbed a wheelchair and we went to find Elizabeth.

Elizabeth was in the middle of a room, lying on a flat surface with doctors around her. I watched them work. Our pediatrician was there and said he was putting in an arterial line through her umbilical cord. They'd taken x-rays and said they were pretty sure it was transposition of the great vessels, but they wouldn't know for sure until she got to Primary Children's. I had no idea what they were talking about. A helicopter team arrived and they began loading equipment and getting my tiny newborn ready for her first ride anywhere. I stopped a team member and asked what their training was. He told me. I asked if they would take good care of her and he assured me they would. And then they were gone.

I lay in my hospital bed and cried and tried not to listen to the squeaking of little nursery beds being wheeled down the halls to their mothers. My phone rang and it was a heart surgeon from Primary Children's. She told me it was definitely transposition of the great vessels and that they had to do surgery immediately if there was any chance of saving my baby's life. Would I give her permission over the phone- a verbal signature- for them to do the surgery? She explained that they would go in with a catheter and make a hole in her heart between the right and left sides so a little bit of oxygenated blood could get to her body. That was about all I understood. She was hurrying, wanting me to understand but also wanting to know right away if she could do the surgery. I gave her permission, then repeated the same thing on the phone to two more people, so there were 3 witnesses that I gave permission. They said they would call when the surgery was done. I think it took forever.

The next day I was released from the hospital and Mike drove me directly to Primary Children's Medical Center (PCMC). It was the old PCMC downtown in a crumbling brick building with yellowed walls. I found my baby in a tiny bassinet with a breathing tube and IVs and not a stitch of clothing whatsoever. The nurses explained that they were giving her a medication that made her skin hurt if it was touched- thus the lack of clothing. I reached out a hand to her fingers and was told "no." Even my touch would cause her pain, and that would increase the stress on her heart. I could talk to her, sing to her, sit with her, but not touch her. At all.

The other mothers came over to meet me. The room was not very big and there were tiny bassinets and rocking chairs lining the walls. Someone asked where I lived and I gave them my address. They all stared at me with blank looks. Then one mom said, "Do you mean here? In Salt Lake?" I nodded and they all proceeded to tell me where they were from. Wyoming, Idaho, Arizona, Nevada... I was shocked. "Where do you sleep?" "Here in the rocking chairs." "Don't they have beds for you?" "Only for the most critical patients in the hospital. We're glad they are not for us."

I told the nurse I was amazed at how dark-skinned Elizabeth was. She looked Native American. The nurse said, "She's actually very fair-skinned. It's just that she's blue from lack of oxygen." I stared and stared at my tiny baby, wishing I could feel her fingers wrap around my own.

I went home that night to sleep in my bed and to comfort my little Rachel who wanted to know when her new sister was coming home. And I thought of all those other moms sleeping in their rocking chairs beside their tiny newborns.

The following Monday PCMC was moving to the new hospital up on the mountain beside the U of U Hospital, and Elizabeth was scheduled to be the first patient moved into the new facility. We were waiting for her to be strong enough to live through the open-heart reconstructive surgery she needed. We'd been told she might be ready when she was about a week old. But she was still not breathing on her own, a sign that she was too weak for the major surgery. I signed release papers for her to be photographed for newspapers as the first patient in the new hospital and prayed for her to take a breath on her own.

On Sunday morning we went to see Elizabeth before church and-- the breathing tube was gone! The doctors said she had begun breathing on her own that morning, taking breaths when the machine was not pumping air into her lungs. I could hardly believe it. I still could not touch her, but I felt like my spirit was holding her, hugging her to me, cheering for her little tiny breaths.

When we walked into church, a 12 year old girl named Angela came to talk to me. "How is Elizabeth doing?" I told her the amazing news that she was breathing on her own! Angela smiled and said, "I knew she would get better today. I'm fasting for her today." I cried.

Surgery was scheduled for Elizabeth's 7th day of life. We were there early in the morning, waiting for them to come take her to the ER. And waiting. And waiting. And finally a doctor came and said they could not do the surgery because there was a problem with the air conditioning system in the brand new OR. I couldn't believe they would postpone a baby's surgery because of something as trivial as air conditioning, and said so.

It was then that I got a full understanding of exactly what they were going to do to my daughter. In order to rebuild her heart, they had to put her on bypass, meaning the blood would bypass her heart and be pumped by an artificial pump during surgery. But, the tiny capillaries that feed the heart's main vessels can not be sewn back together if blood is flowing at all. So for part of the surgery, they would turn the bypass off and let Elizabeth "die," no blood being pumped through her tiny body at all, so they could see what they were doing. In order to be able to revive her after this, they would need the room to be very cold, and her body would be packed in ice for the surgery.

Oh.

They flew in engineers from Minnesota to fix the cooling system of the OR. But if they didn't have it fixed in 2 days, the doctors said they would fly Elizabeth to Boston, to the place this brand-new surgery had first been performed just a few years earlier.

Two days later, on Friday morning, the air conditioning was fixed and Elizabeth had her seven-hour open heart surgery. That night the hospital staff offered me one of the beds for parents in the hospital.

She was in the post-op ICU. A tiny person nearly lost in the dizzying wall of tubes and monitors and wires. She had several nurses dedicated only to her. The surgeon had videos of her monitors linked to his house so he could go home and still see how she was doing. There was an area the size of a large room filled with equipment connected to her tiny self.

A nurse from another patient walked by and looked at her. "Is this Doctor X's arterial switch?" Someone said yes. The nurse looked at Elizabeth for a moment and then said, "Huh. He's getting better at his switches."

(I am so ashamed that I cannot remember her surgeon's name. Sometimes I can. Right now it's not coming to me.)

Two weeks later Elizabeth came home for the first time. She was only home for a day before she had to go back in for heart failure, but she came home again for a bit longer, and then for a bit longer, until she was off oxygen, recovered from heart failure and doing well. She managed to stay home a whole month- from 3 months old to 4 months old- and we decided it was all right to leave her for about an hour with a babysitter- a girl we trusted from church. When we got home the babysitter had shaken her and dropped her on the kitchen floor and that evening Elizabeth had brain surgery because of hemorrhaging. We were told she would probably never learn to read or write and that she may never learn to speak.

********** ********** ********** ********** **********

They were wrong. Elizabeth laughed and talked at early ages. She was not behind in anything. I came out of the bathroom one day to find she'd completed a 30 piece puzzle on the floor while I was in the shower. She was not quite 3 at the time. She loved books and learned to read early. Sometimes I found myself wondering what she would have been like without the brain surgery! But most of all, Elizabeth was kind. She loved everyone and had the tender heart of a peacemaker.

She was also afraid of some things. Like worms-- gummy or real-- and slippery slides. Yet she had a bravado about her little blond, pig-tailed self that was wonderful to see. I brought home gummy worms for the girls one day and Rachel ate hers and asked she could eat Elizabeth's. Elizabeth was sitting at the table on eye-level with the worms. "No," she said. "I'm going to eat them. Just not yet." I smiled and went to fold laundry. I came back almost an our later and there was Elizabeth, still eye-level with the worms. She finally let Rachel eat them.

Elizabeth would sit at the top of slippery slides for forever, staring down the slide as the kids behind her shouted, "Hurry up!" It was after one of these playground days that she told me, "You don't have to call me Elizabeth any more. You can just call me Brave Girl."

And she WAS brave! She overcame her fear of worms and slippery slides. She became Rachel's protector, going with her to ask for more napkins at McDonald's, going before Rachel into the dark bedroom, making Rachel's phone calls when Rachel was too shy, and all-around proving she was Brave Girl.

When she was four, she was back in the hospital with Cat Scratch Fever. We didn't know what she had- it took weeks to figure it out- and we were living in Saudi Arabia at the time. The CDC flew a doctor to Utah to examine Elizabeth, since everyone was afraid she might have brought some strange, new disease into the US. I was pregnant with Bethany at the time and kept crying about everything.

Elizabeth's IV blew in her arm and they moved it to her left had- a much more sensitive spot. She smiled after the IV was in and said, "The good thing about having my IV in my left hand is, I can still color!" The next day, on her way to some testing, her nurse accidentally ran over her IV with the wheelchair and pulled it out. They took her back to her room and put the IV in her right hand. Elizabeth stared at her crayons as they put in the IV. After it was in, Elizabeth looked at it for a moment. Then she said, "The good thing about having my IV in my right hand is... I don't have to taste the yucky medicine!" I burst into tears just as the doctor flown in from the CDC walked into the room to meet us. After several attempts to talk to me, during which time I kept catching my breath, only to begin sobbing again, he finally said, "Why don't I come back at a better time."

When he was gone, Elizabeth comforted me.

She grew tall and graceful and even more kind. Her medical trials continued. As she said one day a couple of years ago, "I must have signed up for the Medical Adventure Life." She played with her doll house and asked if we could get a wheel chair for the doll family. She turned their shed into the hospital and the doll children spent a lot of time having surgery and visiting the cardiologist. Elizabeth said she wanted to be a cardiologist or surgeon when she grew up.

And she told stories. Laugh-out-loud, side splitting stories, touching stories, silly stories, and thoughtful stories. On the way home from the dentist one day she told us, Bill Cosby-style, The Truth About the Dentist. I laughed so hard I had to pull over on the side of the road. When she got older, she began writing her stories down.

And she drew pictures. Amazing, pictures. I wish that I had framed several of them. She shows people in relationships in her pictures, often with rain. Her skill with a pencil or paintbrush is as great as her skill with words.

And now she is twenty-one! Brave Girl, lovely as Cinderella, a dreamer making her dreams come true, an incredibly hard worker, creative in everything she does, with a heart as kind as anyone who has ever walked the earth. I still wonder, as I did so many times when she was little, how I could be the mother of someone as amazing as she is.

Happy Birthday Elizabeth. I love you.

=)

What Runs 'Round in my Head

Surgery is rescheduled for April 4^th. Did I mention that already?

Naomi and Bethany are downstairs watching “Flipped” while Peter is upstairs practicing the violin and crying because he’s not watching the movie. Am I just mean? I don’t feel sorry for him. Am I supposed to? Instead of doing his school list today, while I was at the doctor he was on the phone-- for almost an hour. Peter is grounded from the phone. And has been for several weeks.

What is happening to my life? I feel like I’m falling into a black hole, things are getting weirder and weirder, the world is turning upside down, and all the while, I’m too dazed to do anything but tumble downward, heels over head, with a vague feeling that I might be about to crash into a nasty ending, or become spaghettified. And then I wander off to look for toenail clippers and wonder if there is anything for dinner, and if we really have to eat, or if we might just all float away.

Will I be stuck here forever?

I used to think there was a happy ending coming up- any moment now. Prince Charming was about to carry me off to his castle in the sky. Or at least in southern France. His staff would clean the bathrooms. My children would attend private schools with programs that would make Bethany smile, Naomi recover from kleptomania, and Peter become the charming young man he was meant to be. Prince Charming’s money would pay for it all. And I would wear cotton dresses and entertain guests in the gazebo out back after a day of horseback riding along the beach with my husband. At night we would lie in bed and hold each other and it would be amazing because we were so in love. On holidays we would take little trips to Turkey and the Maldives.

I’m afraid that’s not happened. Frozen pizzas and moldy caulking have been my lot. And I don’t see an end in sight. I’m beginning to feel as if I’m waking form a dream of published novels and cute little houses (let alone southern France) and seeing that if I don’t get a real job, we are going to starve. I’ve dropped all the kids’ classes. No more music, dance or online history classes. I don’t even usually check their schoolwork. We are dangerously close to unschooling. I find myself thinking that a day on the computer with a guitar playing Taylor Swift songs might pass as a good education. What will become of these kids? I started homeschooling because I thought public school was a joke. My kids needed something more rigorous. Now I’m happy if they put in a good half hour with a workbook.

But what is the alternative? Traditional life? We all leave in the morning and come home exhausted at night to eat our frozen pizza, take a shower with the moldy caulking and drop into bed exhausted, just to get up with a buzzer and do it all again? I believe I would lose the particle of sanity I have managed to hide away under my bed. And covered in dog hair though it is, I don’t want to lose it.

I dream of running away to Europe and living out of a suitcase as we travel from place to place. No mortgage payment. But also no solitude. When would I be alone? How could I ever write anything? Then I imagine a lighthouse on the shore where we pick blueberries and the kids climb about on the beach while I write. Notice the lack of school in these fantasies. Notice the lack of dinner and laundry and reality. I am still a dreamer, wandering down the road, late, but unaware of clocks and mundane things like money. The clouds are lovely. And perhaps those pink blossoms could fall, spinning, like rain or stars, and light my path, carpet my world. I hear water running and remember the kitchen ceiling leaks if water falls on the kids’ bathroom floor. Not only do I not know how to fix it, I do not have time nor money to fix it, and I don’t even want to fix it. There is something romantic about having to put a pot on the kitchen counter every time someone showers. Eventually the ceiling will rot and fall into a pot of tomato soup. But perhaps by then I will have moved out.

Reality. If I pretend it is not real, perhaps it will go away.

And then we’re back to the dreams of Prince Charming, southern France, touring Europe and lighthouses in Maine. And the reality that depending on how the divorce settlement goes, I might be right here—leaky ceiling and all—for the rest of my life.

I’ve got to take matters into my own hands. I’m going to go order church magazines. One tiny step for reading material. One giant leap in the right direction.

(sigh) at least I hope it is.

Surgery. Or not.

Have you ever noticed how sometimes things don't go as planned?

I got to Potomac Hospital at 6 am and changed into a cute little dress with ties at the back, a pair of leg-strangling tights with holes on the soles (for what?) and totally stylish blue paper slippers. A nurse made four (4!) attempts at getting the IV in my arm, and finally got blood to flow freely. Others poked and prodded and took blood and hooked up monitors.

And then the anesthesiologist came in. He's probably a reasonably intelligent guy. After all, he did make it through medical school. But we were having a communication problem. Somehow the message that my doctor had already checked with Potomac's anesthesiology department about my issues with medications, and that there was "No Problem," did not get passed along to this guy. Or maybe he wasn't listening when they told him. I'm betting on the "Not listening" option, since that's what he did with me. I tried explaining my history, and he repeated a garbled version back to me. I tried correcting him and he interrupted. Eventually he summed up his understanding. "You want me not to give you anything, but you still want to be unconscious for the surgery." No! I told him that was not it at all! I just need smaller doses. A lot smaller. And there are a few things I can't have at all. But only a few. Not most.

He left and I hoped he was Googling what to do with me. If he'd brought me a computer, I could have shown him. When he returned he announced he had a solution. He would do an epidural. I blinked and said, "There is something else you should know. I have really bad scoliosis." He told me to bend forward so he could see my back as I explained that I have four curves, that I don't know the degree of any of them anymore, but that they're not single digits. He ran his finger along my spine and exclaimed. Then he left the room again.

He did not come back.

It was my doctor came in and said, "The anesthesiologist is saying we have to cancel your surgery. He won't sedate you. I can't sedate you. I can't make him sedate you. And I can't operate with you awake."

I had seen it coming. I asked if I could talk to my mom for a minute. The doctor said yes, and left my mom and I alone.

Now, let me explain something. Yesterday (was it really only one day ago?) I got a call in the morning from my doctor's nurse asking if I'd heard that my surgery was canceled. I hit the roof of my car and proceeded to tell her that not only did I not know that, but my mom was about to board a plane in Salt Lake to be here for the surgery. She said she'd ask the doctor to call me. I didn't wait for the call. I hit the gas and tried not to run any red lights as I called my mom and told her not to get on the plane while driving to my doctor's office, where I demanded to see the doctor RIGHT NOW!

She came in and explained that she'd misread my ultrasound and could not do the surgery she'd explained to me, and did not want to switch procedures without checking with me, had not pulled my chart to remember who I was or what the situation was, and simply told the nurse to reschedule so we could have a chance to "chat." But, since I had conveniently shown up in her office, (!!!) we could go ahead on Tuesday, as long as I was ok with a different procedure. She was very apologetic, and I agreed that the surgery needed to be done. I called my mom, told her to go ahead and get on the plane, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Big mess fixed. Or so I thought.

Now, I looked at my mom. "What can we do? You came all the way out here." She pointed out that there was nothing we could do about that now. And really, if the guy has no idea what to do with me, it's better for him to admit it now, rather than when I'm dead.

I called my doctor back in and said the only thing I could. "Ok. I'll go home."

She said I should "probably go to a major medical center, where they... um... I don't want to say they know more. But they might... umm... well, be better prepared to handle..."

I just nodded. Right.

So, now I'm home. And my mom is here for two weeks. Tomorrow I'm picking up the records of whatever it was that happened today. It should be interesting to read the official version. "Psycho woman tried to convince me to let her into the OR without any anesthesia." Whatever. I'll take them with me when I go to meet with anesthesiologists at other hospitals in the area, on my quest to find someone who knows how to knock me out so my internal organs can be removed.

Ok. Maybe the psycho part isn't too far off.

But at least I get to have my mom here! And if I'm not on bed rest for the whole time, maybe we can go do something fun together. =)