How Many Hands Does it Take to Rub a Butt?

My husband did a brave thing tonight. He overcame his apprehension about giving me a shot and took the plunge, pardon the pun. I was a bit nervous as he prepared for the task. I knew he and my sister were getting the syringe ready. They tried hard to hide it, but I'm fairly observant which consequently makes it hard to pull a fast one on me.

I was quite pleased with myself that I was better able to control my nerves and face the needle without tears or other signs of anxiety. In truth I've pretty much just resigned myself to dealing with it.

Without the usual fanfare, Arie dove right in and delivered the shot to the left side of my butt. Where the whole experience departed though was in the pain. Previously, I've not actually felt the needle. Arie however, had never given a shot before and moved just slow enough that it pinched. He definitely learned his lesson.

I'd like to give a nod to two people who helped him tremendously: my sister and my 17.5 month-old son. Because Arie was uncertain where to stick the needle, my sister grabbed a black Sharpie marker from the side of the refrigerator and drew a large circle on each side of my butt! I said, "Did you just draw on my butt with a Sharpie?" "Yes," she said. I'll spare you the photo she took afterward to show me. Our little boy, whom I affectionately call Bubba was even more helpful. After Arie pulled the needle out and began to rub my butt so as not to leave a knot, Bubba walked in the kitchen and reached up to help Daddy rub it in. He's such a big helper! :)

A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to Getting Pregnant: Our IVF Experience

Today was the day my sister and brother-in-law have been waiting for a long time. As I laid in bed this morning I began to ponder what the appropriate outfit is to wear on the occasion of becoming a surrogate for your sister, using her eggs and her husband's sperm. It's not like I needed to don lingerie (though I didn't honestly think of that one until we were nearly to the clinic). I started to wear jeans and a long-sleeve t-shirt, then thought better of it. That would have been way too casual. I eventually opted for slimming black jeans and a pinkish cashmere sweater. Someday these things might matter. LOL

When I finished dressing myself, I reached for the card I'd bought Val. A week ago I'd visited Hallmark looking for the perfect card that says "I'm ready to loan you my body for nine months - and I'm actually happy about it." Not surprisingly, it doesn't appear there are cards that fit that category. Pouring through the store, I finally found the one. It was yellow with some black writing on the front that says, "NICE." The inside sports the words, "Way to go!" The whole thing is accompanied by the song Whomp!(There it is!) by a group named Tag Team. Something about it seemed right as I was busting a gut in the middle of the store. The only real problem was I couldn't decide whether to give the card to Val or to Aaron. Of course I knew I would have to come up with my own version of a Hallmark mushy card to say all the other heartfelt things I wanted to say. So I stood in my bathroom and wrote a letter to my little sister. I think I effectively conveyed how much I love her.

Looking in the mirror I realized that I needed to accessorize my sweater. I reached for a necklace that was given to me by a close friend as I left Japan. It's two silver circles resting on top of one another holding a single pearl in the lower curve. I stared at it thinking how much it looked like an egg in a womb. Perfect! My friend Tomoko would be so pleased to know I wore it today. I threw on my pearl earrings and the ensemble was complete. It's been a long time since I thought that hard about what to wear. I'm really not that into my clothes. My life is pretty simple and doesn't normally call for special wardrobe consideration. Today was just...well, different.

Val, Aaron, and I paused for a short time in the kitchen to take some photos before she and I headed out the door. We wanted to document the occasion. Whether we become pregnant or not, it was still a momentous day.

On our long drive we joked about it being a covert operation. I could imagine her talking into her wrist like the Secret Service saying, "The package is delivered." I told her I suddenly felt like I was in protective custody. In essence I guess that was true. Had we recorded the conversation, we would have a great addition to a baby book. I wish I could recall all the details. The most important part is that we spent nearly an hour laughing together and having a good time. There were times she was actually laughing and crying at the same time, but that was partly due to the pain she was in.

Unfortunately, Val was uncomfortable during the whole drive, just as she has been since Tuesday. The stimulation of her ovaries left her with Ovarian Hyperstimulation Syndrome. It is a painful condition that can be quite serious. In fact, an ultrasound today revealed that her ovaries are so large they are rubbing against each other. It's called "kissing ovaries". Hopefully her symptoms will subside within a week from now. For now she's not very mobile and is moving very slowly. She has a positive attitude though and has been an inspiration through the whole IVF process. No matter what she's encountered she has done so with grace.



When we arrived at the Jones Institute, we were placed in a pre-op area and changed into our designated OR garb. We cracked out our cameras and took tons of photos of each other and the staff. It was a fun time even while we waited. The laughter continued right up to the moment they rolled me back into the OR.

After the nurses situated me on the table, Dr. Sergio Oehninger (our doctor) and the embryologist doctor both came in. Within a few moments the embryologist walked out and flashed the eggs, as viewed through a microscope, up onto a large screen. We had less than a minute to admire them, during which Val took a nice photo.



The doctor walked back in shortly afterward and with movements as careful as if he were disarming a bomb, he handed the pipette to Dr. O. who then threaded the pipette through my cervix as we watched on the ultrasound screen. I could see the white line of the long tube moving up into my uterus. Suddenly there was a puff that shot out the end of the tube and Dr. O said something like, "There they go." The entire procedure lasted roughly two minutes or less.

Dr. O stepped out and came back in carrying a certificate for Valerie, as well as the petri dish that held the eggs. He gave it to her saying, "This is their first cradle." It was pretty neat and of course brought a smile to Val's face. Once I was transferred to another bed, they rolled me out. Valerie was walking behind me when a nurse named Donna said something to her that stopped me mentally in my tracks. She turned to look at Val and said, "Come on, Mom." I said, "Wow, Val. I think that's the first time you've ever been called Mom." We were both tickled. Suddenly I think she felt pregnant. I know I did a little. That was a memorable moment for her.

As usual, we were barely in the post-op area when my phone rang and it was Mom calling to see how things were going. Her timing is always spot on! She definitely has a sixth sense about her when it comes to her kids. We told her we were done and she shared a funny story. Apparently she had just spoken with an older lady and told her she was a grandmother again today. They lady asked the obvious next question, "Was it a boy or a girl?," to which Mom replied, "We don't know yet - they were just implanted." LOL Imagine the confusion on that woman's face. I'm sure Mom went on to explain.

I think our family became a little more like glue today. We spoke with Mom, Dad, and our brother Ross. They were all so excited. It's great to feel their hopeful anticipation. It's amazing to think that in 11 days we may have another family member or members on the way. We all can't wait!

Progesterone Panic!

I tend to think of myself as a pretty strong person. I've held strong to Philippians 4:13 which says, "I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me." Therefore my strength is not my own. Tonight however, all that seemed to leave me. Let me recount the story . . .

We were running late for our Boy Scout meeting after going to the gym for a run and a swim. I bolted through the door and began running around like a crazy woman to prepare dinner - baked salmon. All was going well when I turned and saw a frightening sight - the syringe and vial of progesterone. I began having a fist fight with the air in front of me, looking quite like a schizophrenic person. My sister was concerned and asked in an alarmed voice, "What's wrong?" I told her, "You have to give me the stupid shot! I have to have it before I leave for Boy Scouts." To say I was slightly freaking out was probably an understatement.

I grabbed the syringe, prepped it, and set it on the counter. Val said she needed a minute to prepare herself. She's given lots of shots, but never to someone she cared about. I think she was feeling guilty about inflicting pain on me. Meanwhile, I was trying to keep moving making dinner, but getting more anxious by the second. When she was finally ready, I had Ritz cracker crumbs all over my hands and they began to tremble. I didn't cry, but I felt a surge of panic and thought I might hyperventilate. I washed the crackers off my hands and grabbed the counter as best I could. She pulled down the waistband of my running shorts and rubbed the alcohol on the upper part of my butt toward my hip. At first, she began to pat firmly on the skin. It felt like it was taking forever and I was getting more panicked and light-headed. I said, "Hit it harder!" She hauled off and smacked me hard on the butt and plunged the needle in. It was great! My butt was still stinging from her hand (which might have left a welt for all I know) so much that I didn't even feel the needle. Talk about a relief. I think over time this is going to get much easier. Now I just have to pep talk my husband into giving me the shot. He's a little apprehensive.

After the shot, we were joking about the whole thing. It really is ridiculous how anxious I get. I just can't stave off my healthy respect for needles. So much for having strength for all things. Thank God for sisters who are willing to stab you in the butt when the situation calls for it. I guess I'd still rather be stabbed in the butt than in the back. LOL

Does a Progesterone Shot Count as Nutrition?

The reproductive clinic called today and said my progesterone levels are too low. Since I'm going in on Friday to implant the eggs, they need my levels to come up. They said I'll have to give myself shots of progesterone suspended in oil. I nearly went into an anxiety attack thinking about having to stick myself with more needles. I was on the phone crying with the nurse. I wound up having to drive an hour back to the clinic to pick up the medicine and syringes from the pharmacy at the adjacent hospital.

I stood at the pharmacist's window and stared at one of the syringes. I even turned around and showed it to the lady behind me and said, "Do you see this?" She said she's not sure if she could give herself that shot and she's a nurse! The needle was so big to my eyes! I began to feel faint just thinking about having to stab myself in the butt with it! Thankfully, my nurse offered to give me my first shot. I've done the shots in my stomach in preparation for the pregnancy, but those were butterfly needles and fairly easy to do. Seriously doubting my ability to give myself this shot, I decided to head back to the clinic. When Beth, my nurse, came out to get me she hugged me and said she was sorry. I felt comforted.

We stood in a patient room discussing how the medicine is suspended in sesame oil. I started to cry and overheat when she was talking to me about how to give myself the shot. I blurted out that we had to shut the door so I could pull off my clothes. As the door shut, I was already throwing off my baseball cap, exposing my seriously flat hair. Then I yanked off my shirt and was beginning to sweat. Turning around to the bed, I stepped between the stirrups that were protruding from the end. I pulled down the waist of my pants, grabbed the sides of the bed, and began to cry. I said, "Let's just get it over with." She stabbed that needle into my butt like a dart. It didn't hurt at all! I was obviously relieved and began to relax somewhat. Then something strange happened. Right after she stuck me, I found myself wondering if I would need to log the calories from the sesame oil and how I would do that. How many calories are in 1 cc of sesame oil anyway? I couldn't believe I was having that thought! Man, talk about being dedicated to my nutrition! I mean who does that? LOL

The Scary Woman with No Nipples

I went to the YMCA today with the kids. I've avoided getting into the pool for months because the only bathing suit I own is a black Speedo that accentuates all the wrong parts of my body. Additionally, the last time I wore it it was horribly tight and a little girl accused me of being pregnant. Wow! To say I hate that suit is an understatement. Today however, I chose to overcome myself in order to play with Koen in the pool and have some "us" time. I was excited to share those moments with him.

Having gone through bootcamp, I was able to get over being naked in front other others since we regularly changed and showered with other girls. Living in Japan as well offered opportunities to spend time at various onsen, which are public bath houses where naked is the rule and not the exception. The onsen are segregated, so it can be likened unto a tropical, steamy spa full of women lounging in hot tubs, steam rooms, and stone beds in their birthday suits. Suffice it to say that I'm really over the naked thing, though I don't go out of my way to show off what my Mama gave me.

I changed in the bathroom stall since I had consumed a lot of water in the hour before hitting the pool and frankly I needed to be in there anyway. :) I was pleasantly surprised that my bathing suit is fitting much nicer after losing 20 pounds. It's amazing what those 20 little boogers can do for a person - or not do, depending on where you are. It was great to feel that difference. My weight loss efforts are paying dividends.

After spending time in both the pool and the hot tub, I headed back into the locker room to peel out of my suit. Where an hour before there had not been more than a few people in the room, suddenly there wasn't a private spot to be had. As I stood there contemplating changing my clothes, it occurred to me that I was feeling anxious. It made me pause. I'm not accustomed to feeling nervous in this type of scenario. I wondered what lay at the root of my sudden modesty. It didn't take long to realize that I was concerned about someone seeing my breasts.

My breasts look like road maps now with long scars that wrap around toward my back. They are slightly misshapen because of my recent surgery and I don't have any nipples. As I was pondering my own feelings about revealing my body in front of strangers, a little girl walked in. She looked squarely at me, as had several other people. I thought, "What if this little girl stares at me with question marks in her eyes?" What if others notice as well. Will the obviously missing nipples create a discomfort in them that would be awkward? Would they stare? If so, would I want to say something to set them (or myself) at ease? I came to the conclusion that I wasn't ready to tackle that possibility. It's not that I'm uncomfortable to talk about it or even to show another woman who wants to see the scars. In that moment though I couldn't tell how much of me was hiding, versus simply wanting to spare others the awkwardness and questions.

I don't ever want to avoid the discussion. I guess I just want to do it with the right timing so that the impact on others is positive, not confusing. I would never want to be the scary woman with no nipples.

Dripping Joyous Sweat

Yesterday I ran. I wasn't the fastest one on the treadmills at the gym, but I might have been the happiest. Who knew that dripping sweat could be such a joyous occasion? Stepping off that treadmill I felt triumphant. I felt like I crossed a milestone and left an old part of me behind. The more I move forward and look at my life and old attitudes in the rear view mirror, the more I can see the old me disappearing out of sight. The choices I make today are healthier than they've ever been. Daily I'm overcoming myself and pushing on to a future that's bright!

How Can I Call Myself These Things?

When I was a little girl I used to dance around the room holding a hairbrush, pretending it was a microphone. Music spoke to every part of my soul. If it was an emotion or experience of any kind, I could choose a song to relate it to. It was my outlet, my comfort, my connection to life.

I recall the first time I told someone, "I'm a singer." Part of me felt like a fake because they looked at me as if to size up whether or not I was lying to them. At that moment I felt a need to explain that I wasn't a recording artist, but a singer none-the-less. Why did I have to explain myself? Why did I feel like I was absconding with a title I hadn't earned? Actually, the real question was, "Am I really a singer?"

The same applies to my writing. Now that I tell people I am a writer I get the same type of look as before with my singing. People want to know if I'm published. Well, no I'm not, but does that make me any less a writer?

I've come full circle on these questions and here is the conclusion I've come to. When I wake up in the morning, I have a song on my lips. I sing: in the car, in the shower, to wake the babies and to put them to sleep, when I'm happy, when I'm sad, when I'm inspired, walking through Wal-Mart, or any other time as the urge hits me. In essence, I'm a singer because I sing.

Why then am I also a writer? Throughout the day I make notes about topics to write about. It's an ongoing joke with my family when I say, "You know I'm gonna have to write about that," and they know I'm serious. I regularly e-mail myself writing ideas. I ponder book ideas. By the end of the day, all I can think about is stealing time to write. In fact, I often fall asleep in my recliner, laptop open on my legs, fingers still on the keys banging out the most recent inspiration. Essentially, I'm a writer because I write.

When I wake up in the morning or go to sleep at night, when all I can think of is singing or writing, that IS who I am. It is who God created me to be. So whether I am recorded or published or not is irrelevant. I am these things because of my passion for them and their movement within me. This is in part, my definition of me. These are two of the parts I most wish to share with the world.

Butterfly Needles & Anxiety Attacks

I've been giving myself shots of Lupron for the surrogacy for exactly two weeks now. Giving myself shots is something I never thought I'd be able to do. It was surprising to me how easy it was to do the very first one. All was going beautifully until a few days ago when I must have hit a nerve going in. Ouch! That one stung.

The next day I prepared my syringe and wiped my belly with an alcohol pad before pinching up the skin to administer the shot. As I held the syringe with the needle hovering over my skin, I suddenly had a hot flash and began to sweat. I began to see white spots and felt slightly light-headed. What was happening to me? Was I really on the verge of a panic attack over this little butterfly needle? After about five minutes of hesitation and telling my husband I wasn't sure if I could do it, I finally popped the needle in and called it done. I was relieved - and then came this morning . . .

I didn't start off feeling anxious about the shot this morning. I simply grabbed my supplies and headed to the kitchen to retrieve the Lupron from the fridge. After preparing the syringe, I once again stood frozen in fear with the needle taunting my skin. Again I was struck with mild symptoms of an anxiety attack. For nearly ten minutes I would put the needle down and walk away, come back and try again, then walk away again. Numerous times I tried to fake myself out by counting, 1 - 2 - 3. It didn't work. I tried to say, "I have to do it before the water boils for the oatmeal." Then I tried to say, "I have to do it before the timer goes off and the oatmeal is finished cooking." The oatmeal finished cooking and I was still holding that evil little syringe with one hand and pulling the pot off the burner with the other. "@&(*$^, sigh." Okay, I thought, I'll call my sister. Crud, she's not home. Well I'll try my mom instead. Thank God! She answered!

"Mom, I am standing here holding this needle and just can't do it! This is ridiculous! It's been two weeks. Why am I having such a hard time with this?" She encouraged me, though mostly I don't remember what she said except, "Wow, there's still some weenie left in you." Had I not been in such psychological distress, I might have pondered that comment more and even found it humorous. I'd already been crying on the phone with her for several minutes as the twins toddled around my legs, intermittently reaching up pointing to my belly and grabbing for the syringe. They were probably thinking some baby version of "Mama is losing her mind." They kept staring at me like they did when Koen fell on the floor writhing in pain after stubbing his toe. Clearly they were concerned. I kept telling myself to pull it together and just get it done. Dragging it out was only making it worse. Then, Mom asked if it would help if she counted to three. "Yes, I think so," I said. 1 - 2 - 3 - I hesitated perhaps a nano second after 3 and thrust the needle into my belly. Imagine my relief when I literally didn't feel a thing! Whew, it was over!

So what lessons have I learned from all of this?
1. Mom is always there for you.
2. Counting to 3 and stabbing yourself doesn't work because you know it's coming.
3. Babies are very in tune with the emotions of their moms.
4. It takes 5 minutes to cook oatmeal, but sometimes 20 to give yourself a shot.
5. I'm capable of willingly inflicting pain on myself, both physically and mentally.
6. It's easy to make mountains out of molehills.
7. Most mountains ARE molehills.
8. I REALLY love my sister! :)

Tomorrow has to be a better day for Lupron shots. After talking with my sister, I understand she has also been having issues with her shots. Commiserating with her made me feel so much better. It's nice to feel like you're in the boat with someone else - and we are most definitely in this boat together!

Scars: to Reveal or Not to Reveal

I went to the YMCA today with the kids. I've avoided getting into the pool for months because the only bathing suit I own is a black Speedo that accentuates all the wrong parts of my body. Additionally, the last time I wore it it was horribly tight and a little girl accused me of being pregnant. Wow! To say I hate that suit is an understatement. Today however, I chose to overcome myself in order to play with Koen in the pool and have some "us" time. I was excited to share those moments with him.

Having gone through boot camp, I was able to get over being naked in front other others since we regularly changed and showered as a group. Living in Japan as well offered opportunities to spend time at various onsen, which are public bath houses where naked is the rule and not the exception. Suffice it to say that I'm really over the whole naked thing, though I don't go out of my way to show off what my Mama gave me.

I changed in the bathroom stall since I had consumed a lot of water in the hour before hitting the pool and frankly, I needed to be in there anyway. :) I was pleasantly surprised that my bathing suit fit much nicer. I guess dropping those 20 pounds was helpful. It was great to feel that difference. My weight loss efforts are paying dividends.

After spending time in both the pool and the hot tub, I headed back into the locker room to peel out of my suit. Where an hour before there had not been more than a few people in the room, suddenly there wasn't a private spot to be had. As I stood there contemplating changing my clothes, it occurred to me that I was feeling anxious. It made me pause. I'm not accustomed to feeling nervous in this type of scenario. I wondered what lay at the root of my sudden modesty. It didn't take long to realize that I was concerned about someone seeing my breasts.

My breasts look like road maps now with long scars that wrap around my back. They are slightly misshapen because of my recent surgery and I don't have any nipples. As I was pondering my own feelings about revealing my body in front of strangers, a little girl walked in. She looked squarely at me, as had several other people. I thought, "What if this little girl stares at me with question marks in her eyes?" What if others notice as well? Will the obviously missing nipples create a discomfort in them that would be awkward? Would they stare? If so, would I want to say something to set them (or myself) at ease? I came to the conclusion that I wasn't ready to tackle that possibility. It's not that I'm uncomfortable talking about it or even showing another woman who wants to see the scars. In that moment though I couldn't tell how much of me was hiding, versus simply wanting to spare others the awkwardness and questions. I think I would have felt the need to explain myself had anyone noticed.

It reminds me of a man we met a couple years ago. We had seen him around the military base but hadn't spoken with him until one day when Koen stared long at the man's facial scars and loudly asked what was wrong with his face. I asked him if he would like to ask the man what happened to his skin, and Koen did want to speak with him. The man's name was John. He had been severely burned as a kid by an auto accident that killed both his mother and little brother. We enjoyed knowing him during our time in Japan. He was a lovely person and I'm glad we took the time to get to know him, scars and all.

I don't ever want to avoid the discussion about my breasts if it comes up. I guess I just want to do it with the right timing so that the impact at that moment is positive. Making others comfortable has always been important to me. Truth be told though, down deep inside I think there was a part of me that was afraid to be that person. You know, the one everyone is staring at and afraid to talk to because they are obviously different and no one knows how to ask the question.

Next Step in Surrogacy: Lupron Shots

This morning a momentous occasion occurred. We took the next step in the surrogacy (IVF) procedure. I gave myself the first shot of Lupron.

The first step of this whole process began on September 30, 2010, when I took the first progesterone pill. Taking the progesterone caused my body to have a menstrual cycle, which I don't normally have. Unlike previous times when I've taken progesterone, I felt remarkably non-hormonal and didn't observe any mood swings. This was a relief.

The second step involved starting birth control pills, which I've been on for one month. Thankfully, I haven't noted any side effects from them either. No weight gain, nausea, or mood swings. Years ago when I took birth control I experienced mood swings and weight gain. I will continue taking birth control for six more days, while also injecting one dose of Lupron each morning.

Lupron is a drug that is used (in my case) to suppress my own ovulation. Since the eggs we are using are my sister's, we don't want my ovaries to release any eggs. I will take the Lupron for exactly two weeks. The day following my last dose, I will begin applying Vivelle dots (estrogen patches) to my abdomen. After about 8 days of estrogen, I will have an ultrasound to check the lining of my uterus to make sure it's thickening properly. The estrogen patches will be changed every two days until the end when my sister's eggs will be retrieved. In the last week before the transfer, I will also be taking a estrace pill (more estrogen) vaginally. All of this estrogen is to prepare my endometrial (uterine) lining to receive the egg(s).

It's all getting closer and more real now. The transfer should be around December 2-3, 2010. Wow, it's hard to believe it's so close, only about 33 days left. The whole thing is so exciting! I don't think I was this excited when we were trying to conceive using Clomid back in 2008. It's different knowing that this is for Val. I'm actually starting to feel a little anxious. You know that feeling when you're in your bathroom waiting for the pregnancy test stick to finish doing its thing and give you the news. That's sort of how I'm feeling even now. I'm hopeful, nervous, and excited.

I'm doing everything I can now to keep myself healthy. I've backed off from drinking coffee and have cut out all caffeine. I'm not eating processed foods, but mostly fresh fruits, veggies, lean meats, lower-fat dairy, whole grains, etc. I've dropped from 198 to 178 and am glad to have another month to lose more weight. I want to be at the healthiest weight I can be so that pregnancy is easier and healthier.

I Don't Care . . . I Like Me!

On a trying day not long ago, I found myself standing face-to-face with my 10 year-old son. To be honest it felt slightly like a Mexican stand-off. Let me recount those moments . . .

We'd had a very difficult morning that involved lots of driving, baby tears and screams, long periods of waiting at a doctor's appointment, and one of our dogs biting the vet. Without further detail, one can imagine the lovely day we were having. During one slight, but desperately needed lull in our day, my son went to our van to retrieve one of his precious Beanie Babies. He's been a collector of sorts for years. Each is special in it's own way and he can recall the details of how each of them have come to join his little "Beanie" family.

Standing in front of the vet's office watching him play with this particular stuffed animal created a stir in me. It was a white umbrella bird with a pink crown of hair that stands up like Don King's. All I could think was here was my 10 year-old son, playing with a very feminine-looking bird out in public. I decided to say something to him. Though I can't recall my exact words, they were an appeal to his masculine side and an attempt to get him to put the bird back in the van. Taking it from his hands, I told him most boys wouldn't be playing with a white and pink bird in public.

My highly introspective son stood there a moment contemplating what I'd said, all the while staring at the bird. After a long pause, he reached for bird saying, "I don't care what people think. I like me." His words left me speechless. In a flash, I was ashamed and thought back to a book I'd read in college called "Real Boys". The premise of this book is that boys suffer low self-esteem and other problems as a result of societal expectations related to masculinity. (That's a HUGE nutshell.) I realized I had just tried to lay on my son what society had brainwashed me with as a child - boys should be tough, act tough, and shun creativity and anything remotely feminine. Wow, that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard!

Anyone who knows my son knows he is very creative, loves to read, and though he loves to swim, he isn't really an athlete. He's compassionate, loving, sentimental, and a sometimes philosopher. Occasionally, he brings me breakfast in bed or makes a cute homemade note for me. He loves board games and cries when he sees injustice or hurt animals. Truly, he is a wonderful young man and I am so blessed to have him in my life. So why in the world would I want to change him? Put simply, I don't and I won't. I don't want to regurgitate onto my son any dysfunctional societal attitudes regarding his masculinity. Let him have his pink-haired Beanie Baby bird - and let me learn again that the best thing I can do for him is give him Godly guidance and love and encourage the person God is turning him into. I'm so proud of my son. One of my favorite quotes applies so well to what I think of my him today. “Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.” ~ Dr. Suess

Sometimes as a parent I get it wrong. It's so important when I'm having a less than stellar parenting moment that I'm wise enough to reevaluate my position and courageous enough to change my stance if necessary. I can't be dogmatic. As much as I'd like to be, I'm not always right. Changing my mind or allowing it to be changed by my son is nothing to be afraid of. It doesn't make me a weaker Mom. It refines me.

At times I turn dialogue with my son into a monologue. Better to listen to him tell me who he is than to tell him who is going to be. Who am I to think that he has nothing to teach me? The truth is that I learn from him everyday. What if I spent more time actually hearing what my son has to say? What if all parents did the same?

Oh my God, I can see!

For months my husband has been poking fun at me because he says I have to hold things too far from my face to read them. I have taken exception to the notion that because I can't read six inches from my face that I have a vision issue. What makes his distance any better than mine? I've been fairly indignant on the issue.

Two nights ago I traveled to Wal-Mart with my sister to pick up some prescriptions from the pharmacy. As usual, there was a wait during which time we began to browse the area around the pharmacy. I stared at some of the shelves contemplating that there must be some need I was having for which one of the products in front of me could fulfill. Really it was simple boredom as we passed the time waiting for the pharmacy tech to sort out my insurance.

Having exhausted the ace bandage and contact lens aisle, we shifted toward the reading glasses display. I recalled playing pretend with glasses as a little girl, wishing I had to wear them because I thought they'd make me look older and smarter. Suddenly I could hear my husband's chiding in my mind. I gravitated to the display determined to prove him wrong which I would promptly do upon returning home. Grasping the nearest package with smallish print, I also turned to grab the lowest level of reading glasses. I had practiced reading the small print on that package and found it to be readable, but blurry at the distance my husband said I should be able to see it clearly. Still holding the package at the same distance, I unfolded a pair of funky, leopard and green +1.00 reading glasses and slipped them on, perching them on the end of my nose. "Oh my God! I can read!," I said to my sister. I was stunned!

After several photos of me feigning depression while trying on various glasses, I settled on a red pair with stars and rhinestones on the arms. It seemed to fit my personality - and my face. Now it was time to make our way home and take it like a woman when my husband said I told you so.

The first person to notice was my ten year-old son. He asked me what was hanging from my neck. I pulled the glasses from their little "necklace" holder and slipped them on. He smiled and hugged me, telling me I looked like Memere (my mom). I laid my head on his shoulder and faked a boo-hoo while laughing and telling him Daddy might be trading me in for a younger woman with better vision. We both chuckled and he told me he was sorry. When I asked why he was sorry he said, "Because you had to get glasses and it means you're getting older."

Now in the last ten months I have undergone some major stress! There is no doubt my hair is much more gray. I can handle daily military life, schooling Koen, raising the twins, the transoceanic move, and two major surgeries, but something about having people ask me if the twins are my grandchildren and if my 35 year-old sister is my daughter is about to break me! But did I mention that I can see now? These glasses are meant to allow me to "see" a whole lot more than just what is in writing now. It's the beginning of seeing a whole new me, even if the new me is running head-on into a mid-life crisis precipitated by other people erroneously thinking I'm old! LOL And by the way, my wonderfully gracious husband told me I looked cute in my glasses and didn't even drop a hint of an "I told you so." I think he must have seen my fragile state. :)

New Breasts & Old Choices

I pulled out my drains today. Actually, I pulled one and my sister helped pull the other one. I was supposed to have a doctor's appointment for my post-op during which the doctor would have pulled the drains, but having seen it done after my first surgery it wasn't an intimidating prospect, so out they came. I feel much more free and can snuggle the babies on my lap with being concerned about them pulling my tubes out. That's a great step in the right direction.

Now that the drains are gone I have been able to get a better look at my breasts and the incisions. The incisions run horizontally along my sides under my arms ending just before the edge of where my back begins. I didn't expect them to be quite that long, but the lines are smooth and rather thin. In time I think they won't be very noticeable. For now, they keep me from being very mobile in my upper body. Reaching across my chest is difficult without some amount of discomfort and lying on my sides won't be easy for some time. I long for the days when I'll be able to sleep on my side again. That is something I've truly missed during this more than 4 month process.

So far, my breasts don't look like I thought they would. I know there is still swelling and they will shift and look different over the next several months. It'll be nice when they reach their new normal look. They are much softer than the tissue expanders - no more rocks in my chest. I can't say that they feel like my real breasts though, which were much softer. I'm sure the swelling is contributing to the extra firmness I'm feeling as well, but a certain amount of firmness is here to stay. This is not a bad thing of course. I joked for years with my husband about trading in my old boobs for new, younger ones. This is NOT the way to go about having a boob job, but there has to be a silver lining to the 4 months of pain I inflicted on myself through this choice.

Speaking of this choice, if I haven't said it already, I would do the same thing all over again. It's not completely over yet. There is still the question of the third surgery to construct a nipple, as well as the future tattooing of the areolae. At this point I can see why some women are content to have no nipples at all. Having gone through this much already, suddenly a nipple becomes less important, especially because it is purely cosmetic and will have no sensation. Then there is the question of projection. How far do I want my new nipple to stick out? I don't want to look cold all the time, but flat won't do either. What's the right decision? Maybe I'll just skip this one, at least for now. I really have a lot more important things on my mind for the time being; like schooling Koen, making holiday plans, getting pregnant for my sister and brother-in-law. Those things are all way more important than I non-feeling nipple I think. When the time is right I'm sure I'll blog about that one as well. Until then, onward and upward. :)

The Day After Reconstruction

I'm sitting here fighting the effects of vicodin and valium in order to write my thoughts on this day after my surgery. It's been an odd day.

The day began at 7:30 a.m. with me in the bathroom stripping my drains. It was odd to be back to dealing with drains again. Without much thought, I grabbed my alcohol pad and began pinching the tube on my right side while sliding my hand down the tube toward the bulb attached to the end. It only took a moment before moving on to the left side for more of the same. Again I followed the same procedure, only I had forgotten that all things have been more uncomfortable with my left side than my right. I quickly stripped the drain and released the tube, upon which I felt a deep sucking pain in my upper chest at the top of my "breast". I had an odd thought as I was nearly passing-out from the pain - "Is this what a sucking chest wound feels like?" Of course I wasn't bleeding out, but I was seeing a large donut-like circle with a black center floating in front of my eyes. Quickly, I sat on the toilet and called for my mom. When she couldn't hear me from the other side of the house and past all the noise of breakfast cooking and babies squealing I purposed to make it back to my bed where I promptly fell asleep for another two hours. So much for starting school with my son on time.

Eventually, I came too and joined the family. I was feeling rather fine with pain meds in my system and was able to sit with Koen and guide him through his school work. Much of the time I wanted to lie my head on the table and rest, but was determined for us to not lose a day of school work. As the day went on I washed a few dishes and was able to do a little paperwork which felt productive. I was just seeing the wood grain on the top of my desk when I began running out of steam. Was it really possible that I had done so little and could be that exhausted?

As much as it pained me, I spent most of the day avoiding the babies because they wanted me to pick them up and I couldn't. It was just upsetting for them, so I tried to redirect them to my mom or sister. I really just wanted to be able to snatch them up and cuddle them, but I've been here before with my first surgery and knew better. I did that the first time, insisting that I could lift them without hurting myself and wound up paying a price. I really had to resist their cuteness and especially their cries. Thank God my family was here to give them the attention they needed.

By late afternoon I was completely spent and gave-in to the call of my bed. I collapsed into an oblivious slumber, sleeping right through the wonderful dinner delivered by a friend from our home school support group. At approximately 11 pm, I woke to the sound of a crying baby and, realizing I was hungry, made my way to the kitchen. One bowl of cereal later and a slow trip to the bathroom for my evening meds and I was back in bed. The whole day was a slow blur, but whew! One day down, two weeks and six days to go until I can pick up my babies - and six weeks to go before I can go back to running. It'll be there before I know it and I'll be so glad.

Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Colonoscopy!

The day of my surgery, my sister and I were sitting in the waiting room contemplating the early morning giddiness we both seemed to be manifesting. I'm not sure why but everything seemed funny. Both of us being military wives, it's nothing new that we are ID'd nearly everywhere we go. It's a fact of life we've grown as accustomed to as our daily underwear change. On that morning though it struck us as quite odd that I would be carded for my surgery. In essence, this is the conversation that ensued . . .

Why are they ID'ing you? I mean what person in their right mind would walk in and say, "Eeny, meeny, miny . . . colonoscopy - yeah, I'll have the surgery that guy over there is having!" Of course it was me checking in for my reconstructive surgery! LOL The fun didn't stop there as we found other silly things to laugh about.

At one point, I noticed Valerie looking around at the other patients in the room. She was trying very nonchalantly to glance out of the corner of her eyes at the feet of all the gown-garbed patients' hospital-issued socks. As it turned out, every other patient in the room was a man. Suddenly Val leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Do your socks have stripes on both sides?" Top and bottom is what she meant. When I told her yes, she laughed and revealed to me that she thought it was just that all the men in the room were dumb. We both got a big chuckle out of that one, especially as she looked down and saw the rubbery stripes on the top of my feet too! Actually, I was beginning to sound like Muttley. You know, the canine side-kick of Dick Dastardly in the Wacky Races cartoons from my childhood? (Yes, I sound like Muttley when I laugh hard, hence my occasionally used nickname.)

We just couldn't stop laughing. Why was everything so funny? I still don't know. One thing is for sure though - it made the waiting to go under the knife bearable. Thank God for my sister! We chatted the time away so effortlessly that I even came up with a new doll. When I was a kid there was a doll named "Chatty Kathy". I asked, what if created a new doll and called her "Chatty Natrix"? Somehow one of my sister's nicknames I've bestowed on her came from a blending of a previous nickname along with the Matrix movie as I had one day envisioned her dodging bullets like Keanu Reeves' character. The name "Natrix" was born and she is now lovingly referred to as both Aunt Ralph (Ralph was my childhood nickname for her) and Aunt Natrix (this is obviously the more "super hero" version of my kids' aunt, which of course she is to them).

I started to contemplate what characteristics the Chatty Natrix doll would have. Let's see . . . she would obviously have to have at a minimum:
1. obnoxiously white, straight, and cavity-proof teeth, and be a dental expert
2. eyes that squint really hard as she laughs
3. an accompanying canine companion larger than her and roughly the size of a Clydesdale
4. a built-in psychology manual and parenting manual capable of delivering timely insights at the pull of a string
5. and no doubt, a really cool Matrix-like black jacket and coordinated shades that would flow as she dodged life's bullets with grace like Nemo (if you haven't seen the movie, this isn't funny to you at all).

These don't even scratch the surface of all this doll could be based on the original, but I could never nail Valerie down to a fixed set of characteristics anyway. She's a polymorphous creature able to both leap tall buildings in a single bound and simultaneously blend in with the bystander. She's my sanity and my proverbial muse. She's both simple and beautifully complex - and she's my sister! :)

Being ever the extrovert, once my IV was placed and the staff began to grow in numbers around my pre-op cubicle, I continued to chat up the nurses when suddenly my whole world began to slur. Actually, according to Val it was the sound of my voice. I looked at the nurse anesthetist and said, "Did you just give me something?" Of course she had and within about 10 seconds I reached a place where no memories remain. I don't recall the bed moving or any sounds and afterward was sure that I had fallen into a deep coma until Val shared with me that I was still mumbling rather unintelligibly and attempting to carry on a conversation as they rolled me down the hall toward the OR. We had all been laughing together before they drugged me. I'm sure that's why I woke up laughing.

They say you wake up however you went to sleep. I'm glad my awesome sister and husband were there to greet me as they rolled me past the waiting room whereupon I was laughing and shouted out to the whole room, "I have BOOBS!" As the room full of people chuckled at my cheesy smile and obvious joy, my sister announced to them, "It's been awhile since she's had boobs." Apparently this was also a declaration I made several times while being rolled down the hall toward the recovery room. LOL

Thoughts Before Reconstructive Surgery

I'm going in for my second surgery tomorrow to remove the tissue expanders (TE's) from my chest and have the implants put in. It'll be odd to have breasts again. All the changes my body has undergone over the last almost four months have been unbelievable. I've gone from having breasts that have fed babies, to no breasts at all and feeling rather manly, to slowly growing mounds that sit high on my chest and are hard as rocks, to tomorrow going back to having breasts again. It's a lot of changes to digest.

The first surgery left flaps of skin on my sides that I've begun lovingly referring to as "Thing 1" and "Thing 2". When they told me the flaps would be gone after tomorrow's surgery I was almost nostalgic. I said, "But I was about to name them!" LOL We all had a good laugh. I was seriously considering Thelma and Louise.

I spoke with my roommate earlier today and she gave me a head's up about what to expect. We had our mastectomies on the same day and recovered together. Last week she had her reconstruction surgery. It was nice to have her share her experience. There were even questions she spawned in me. I thought I knew everything to look forward to until then.

Like the night before every major planned event in my life, I've had a hard time settling my mind. I'm nervous and excited. There's even a part of me that is sad to let it come to an end. This experience has helped to further shape me into the person I am. It's been such a huge part of my life that it's come up a lot in conversation. Now that it's going to be finished, I won't have as much of a reason to talk about it, yet it's still molding me.

When I was widowed I found it hard to talk with anyone without telling them about Jason's death. How could I leave out a reference to something that had and was changing me so drastically? I thought they needed to know in order to "get me". Will this be a similar feeling? It's not exactly the same, but it's certainly made me a different person. This too, like every other experience I've had, will become part of the fabric of my life. Once the scars heal and no one can tell from the outside that anything is different about me it'll become another way to relate to others in similar circumstances.

I've written all my brain can process at this hour. My body is sufficiently exhausted and it's time to call it done. This time tomorrow, I'll be thanking God living life to the fullest. :)

Have a Nuk and a Nap

I have a new song I sing for Karter. Imagine this to the tune of the old Coke jingle "Have a Coke and a smile. " It's amazing how enduring a good marketing jingle or slogan can be. This one came out in 1979 and here I am more than 30 years later…still singing along.

Have a Nuk and a nap,
makes you feel good,
so refreshing,
makes you feel right,
have a Nuk and a nap…

That's the way it should be
when Mama likes to see
Karter smiling at me…

Have a Nuk and a…
Have a Nuk and a nap.

The Wisdom of an Older Brother

Yesterday I was standing in the kitchen talking with my husband when I heard my 10 year-old son Koen laughing intensely and sounding physically strained. The accompanying sounds of my 14 month-old daughter Lisse struggling gave rise to a quote from my son that I couldn't pass up the opportunity to document.

Koen called from the living room saying, "I like that Lisse won't quit, because she's persevering and that's a good lesson to learn . . . unless you're persevering against your older brother."

He's a wise one. :)


Big brother and little sister. They adore each other.

Surrogacy: The Hope of Giving Birth to My Niece or Nephew

On September 30, 2010, my sister Valerie, her husband Aaron, and I had an appointment at the Jones Institute for Reproductive Medicine. After years of trying to conceive and suffering a heart-wrenching number of unexplained miscarriages, they decided to take me up on my offer to be a surrogate for them. We headed to our appointment in torrential rain, feeling uncertain what the clinic would say about my suitability because of my age or medical history, including my recent bilateral mastectomy and upcoming reconstructive surgery. All our apprehensiveness would turn out to be unfounded.

After filling out tons of paperwork, consulting with the doctors, and both Valerie and I having ultrasounds, her for her ovaries and me for my uterus, we were given the green light. It turned out to be much easier than I thought. There will be lots of coordinating of schedules along the way, trips back and forth from Florida for both Aaron and Valerie, and probably some nail-biting, but we now have a time frame. In fact, we were certain they would have a reason to make us wait and were surprised when I was given my first prescription to be started the very next day! That night I headed out to the Wal-Mart pharmacy to turn in my prescription. We couldn't believe it. The transfer should be sometime around Thanksgiving, using her egg and his sperm.

On October 1, 2010, I zipped over to the pharmacy to pick up my meds, then crossed the parking lot and stopped in front of the pet store. I sat in my van with the first pill in my hand. Feeling overwhelmed by the emotional events of the previous two days, which included losing my beloved Shiba Kenji, being worried sick trying to find our Papillon Dexter, then the elation at finding him, I had to take a moment to pause and just breathe. The event I was about to mark was huge - so much bigger than me in that moment. The last nine months of my life had been wrapped up in one big exclamation point. Funny, nine months is the length of time most people associate with a pregnancy.

Holding that little, white, Progesterone pill in my hand represented the hopes and dreams of so many people, starting with my sister. It also guaranteed that the next year of my life would be no less emotional than the last. I could say that the next year will be wrapped up in a huge question mark. That thought didn't frighten me. I'm a Navy wife and therefore accustomed to question marks. :) One thing was certain, God is in control and will either use me to make my sister a mom or not. There I was, alone to ponder the enormity of the decision we'd all made together, my family and hers. I was thankful for those quiet moments. I prayed and gave the whole process to the Lord to make of it what He wills. Of course I also put in my personal request to finally become an aunt. :) How amazing just to think of having the opportunity to bring my niece or nephew into the world.

After praying, I threw back my water bottle and popped the pill in my mouth, thinking, "Here we go!"

The Day We Found Dexter

The morning after Kenji died we awoke at 7 am and prepared ourselves to search for Dexter. I had already prayed and asked God to protect him and bring him home. I didn't know what losing both of them would do to Koen. Dexter had been missing the whole night through horrible rains that had left Elizabeth City, N.C., severely flooded. By 7:30 am we were ready to go.

First, we went out and drove around the neighborhood again calling Dexter's name and whistling to no avail. Then we headed back to the house to call the Albemarle Pet Crematoria to find out about cremating Kenji. The funeral director was at our house within 15 minutes to pick him up. The whole thing seemed surreal and, though I was crying, I felt detached and numb.

Afterward, we left again to begin knocking on doors while we waited for the animal shelters and animal control to open. We started with our closest neighbor and planned to work our way down the street. At our neighbor's house we shared our news and she told us the hour she had last seen Dexter. She recommended we check across the street from her because he might have been able to get under a door that is left cracked open for their dog. Could he be in there? We left and went straight across. After showing Dexter's photo to the very nice lady, she told us her daughter had seen him running down the middle of the main road in front of our house. Traffic, she said, was stopping for him and he was running toward the gas station at the end of the road. Our road is highly traveled and has no shoulder, only deep ditches. That sighting was about 7 pm. I decided to abandon our door-to-door search and go instead to the gas station to show his photo to the staff.

No one at the station recognized Dexter, so Koen said, "What's next?" I quickly said, "Let's go down the street to Lamb's." Being early morning, I thought Lamb's convenience store and gas station might have lots of locals in and out. Maybe we could show his photo and get a hit. The two employees said they hadn't seen him, but a line of customers began turning their heads to look at the photo on my cell phone. The second lady in line said, "I saw him last night. He was diggin' in my trash." I was relieved! Her sighting had been later in the evening. As she was giving me details about where she lived, Koen began to yank vigorously on my shirt sleeve. I leaned over to him and he whispered excitedly in my ear, "I prayed and God told me this lady is going to lead us to Dexter!" He sounded as serious as a heart attack. We finished talking with the lady and made for the door.

Jogging to the van, Koen asked again, "What now?" I told him we were headed toward that lady's street. As we jumped in the van, he began saying, "I know we're going to find him! The last time he got out I found him sniffing in the flowers around a neighbor's mailbox." The tone in his voice was one that said he didn't believe that we would find Dexter later, but that we were literally going to go right then and pick him up. He was convinced that God was pointing us toward his best friend. Though I'm a Christian, I was skeptical. His faith was unshakable and I worried about what would happen if we never found Dexter, or worse, found him dead. Would that rattle his faith? Time was running out for my search because I had only an hour before having to leave for a doctor's appointment. My sister had coordinated her trip from Florida and we both had to be there. There was no way we could reschedule.

Turning onto the street where the lady lived, I slowed my speed and we began calling loudly for Dexter. After numerous houses, I saw a front door open and decided to stop. Another nice lady told me she hadn't seen him, but would be on the lookout. After a brief conversation we were back in the van. I backed out and was just picking up speed when I looked to the right and spotted him standing in a flower bed two doors down and across the street from the lady's house. I shouted, "DEXTER! DEXTER! There he is!" I couldn't park fast enough!

Whipping into the driveway, we both sprang from the van and bolted toward him. He was soaked to the bone, filthy, covered in fleas, and obviously injured. Three of his legs were skinned with patches of fur missing and he was barely walking toward us. In fact, he only stepped out of the flower bed and just stood on the sidewalk waiting for me to pick him up. He winced and yelped as I gently scooped him up, snuggling him into my chest. We made our way back to the van crying tears of joy. We climbed in and I passed Dexter over to Koen's lap. The smile on his face was priceless - pure joy!

Before we could even move another muscle I knew we had to stop and thank God for leading us to Dexter. We give Him all the credit. He derailed every plan I had for finding Dexter, which had included calling shelters and animal control and printing fliers to put up, among other things. Had I taken time to do those things we might have never found him.

It occurred to me later that Koen had had the faith to move a mountain. He prayed, believing, and he received. Later, he told me he had a new nickname for Dexter. He called him "The Miracle Dog". What was wrong with me? The night before as I stood contemplating whether to buy him a soft, new dog bed, I was certain I'd probably be wasting my money. I just couldn't bring myself to believe we'd find him alive and had decided against spending the money. Thankfully, Koen didn't share my skepticism.

All day I pondered the lesson I'd learned from my 10 year-old son. I ponder it still. I want to have the faith of a child, my child. Someone later commented that it was my determination that led us to Dexter. However determined I might have been, without God my little man would not be sleeping in his bed tonight with his best friend. I give it all to Him who has given all for me. I'm so thankful for the prayers lifted up by our family and friends. They were all used by God to sustain us through a frighteningly uncertain time.

The sight of Koen and his best buddy together again gives me peace. Dexter's presence has helped to soften the blow of Kenji's death. We all have been reminded that life is short and that we need to cherish and give time to those we love. I'm grateful that we have more time to love Dexter. Now we just need to pamper him until he's well and running circles around us again.


Koen reading with Dexter, August 22, 2009.

The Night We Lost Kenji

Last night we went to a farewell dinner for Arie's Chief in Chesapeake, Virginia. We left our home at 2 pm to meet Arie and do some shopping before our dinner. As usual, the dogs were in the garage so that they could come and go from the backyard to do their business. It had been raining for four days . . .

We returned home at about 9:30 pm and we began preparing the babies for bed while Koen went out to check on the dogs and make sure they had plenty food and water. I was just preparing to lay Karter down after his bottle when I noticed a flashlight in the backyard. I thought that was odd since it was raining. Why would anyone be in the backyard with a flashlight? After laying Karter down, I realized that Koen hadn't come back in and Arie was no where in the house either. I stepped into the garage where Koen met me saying that Kenji and Dexter were missing and the side gate to the yard was open. Arie came right behind him and told me the rain had saturated the ground, which made the fence settle enough to release the gate latch. Kenji and Dexter had run out and we had no idea how long they'd been gone.

I threw my shoes on and ran out as quickly as I could, followed by Valerie and Koen. We jumped in the van and drove a large perimeter around our neighborhood calling their names and whistling. Nothing. They were gone.

Back in the house, I began looking up numbers for animal control and anyone else I could think of to contact. As Valerie got on the phone making calls, I left again with Koen to search a larger area. It was pouring rain and we were driving with the windows down, again calling and whistling. Frogs were jumping everywhere and I inevitably ran over too many of them. The whole night seemed like death and foreboding. I felt sick as I turned around, dodging frogs, and drove back toward home. At that point we had been looking for them for almost 1.5 hours.

As we approached the house I could see flashlights in the road in front of our house and the shapes I began to make out as Arie, Valerie, and Aaron (my sister and brother-in-law). I was driving up on them when Val calmly waved me off. My stomach sank and I wanted to throw up. Who was it? God, please don't let it be both of them! Koen sat next to me clueless of the sign I'd received from Val. I pulled into the driveway and as I parked I told Koen they had found one or both of the dogs and that it wasn't good. Someone was dead. We both jumped from the van and I began to jog down the driveway. Meeting Val halfway, I said, "Who is it?" She told me it was Kenji. I turned and Koen was gone. Arie and Aaron were standing next to Kenji when I walked up. He had been lying in the tall grass along the side of the road just across the road from our house. I felt so guilty that I'd passed him, not even knowing he was there. I was empty and heartbroken.

Val said that dispatch told her they had received a call and that animal control was going to go out in the morning and pick the dog up. We were so thankful we had found him first. After spending a few moments with Kenji, Arie and I agreed we had to gather him up and bring him home and I ran to find Koen. Rounding the corner from the yard into the garage, my eyes met Koen's. The look on his face was agonizing and he seemed to be holding his breath. I said, "Buddy, it's Kenji and he's dead." No matter how softly I spoke those words I couldn't seem to muffle their blow and my tenderhearted 10 year-old son was reduced to loud sobbing tears. We melted into each others arms - two hearts breaking in two. That's where Arie found us. He wasn't crying, but the look on his face was pained and he seemed to be straining not to cry. It occurred to me that he needed a hug. I think I hugged him, but all I truly recall is talking about what container we could use to hold Kenji. Arie grabbed a large green tub and I ran to grab a towel. I felt the need to make Kenji dry and warm, to give him comfort even though I knew he was gone. Really it was to soothe me by treating him as gently and lovingly as I knew how. Standing in the door of the closet I pondered which towel was the right one to choose on the occasion of losing a best friend. My eyes landed on the purple towel and I thought of Jesus. I yanked it from the stack and ran out the door.

Arie wrapped the towel around Kenji and something about the purple color and Jesus gave me a slight bit of comfort. Arie gently placed him in the container and we walked to the garage. Koen gathered with us and we said our goodbyes to Kenji. Sachi was running all around us and we decided to bring her over so that she too could say goodbye to her best friend of eight years. I raised her paws up on the side of the container and pulled back the purple towel. She leaned forward, sniffing all around Kenji. Her face seemed to change and we thought she understood. We spent some time with Koen before sending him off the bed around 12:30 am.

The fleas on the side of the road were horrible and Kenji was covered in them. We had only recently had our backyard infested with them and had sprayed the yard and treated the dogs. Seeing those fleas made me an angry woman! I felt that he was being violated and was determined to kill them all! I announced to Arie and Val that I was going to Wal-Mart to buy flea killing spray. I was relieved when Val offered to go with me. We drove to Wal-Mart in torrential rain. Elizabeth City, N.C. was flooded.

In the pet section I grabbed the flea killer spray and turned to see the dog beds. We still had Sachi and I felt compelled to buy her a comfortable new bed. The thought occurred to me that if we found Dexter he would need a soft new bed too. I stopped myself short of buying two because after finding Kenji I was skeptical that Dexter would be coming home. I stepped into the check-out and wound up sobbing in front of the cashier and another customer as I told them we'd just lost Kenji. The customer, a man named Jerry, said he would pray for us and specifically for Koen. I grabbed my bag and headed back out into the rain.

We sprayed Kenji and covered him. I was comforted knowing the fleas were dead. How could they live and him not?

Morning would bring many phone calls and knocking on doors in a mad search for Dexter. Koen was worried sick and distraught at the thought of burying Kenji in a yard we would eventually move away from. We all decided to call the pet crematorium in the morning and have him cremated so that we could take him with us the day we move from this house. It was nearly 4 am and still down-pouring before I forced my eyes to close with visions of Kenji in my mind - worried sick about Dexter.


Dexter laying his head on Kenji. They were best friends.

Don't Tell Me to Come Out of the Closet

When I was a little girl, I used to spend a lot of time in my step-mom’s closet. What took me there was as varied as the imaginings of a child. One day might have found me crying over an argument with a friend, while the next day I’d have been pondering my adolescence or maybe even “What do I want to be when I grow up?” No matter the reason, one thing was certain – Dad would always join me there if tears were involved.

There were several reasons I chose that particular closet of all the places in the house. First, it was a place I knew no one would come and interrupt me. There was simply no reason for anyone to knock on that door and ask if they could come in, like the bathroom. Second, it was large enough that it didn’t make me claustrophobic and I could conceal myself behind the hanging clothes at the farthest recesses of the closet. Lastly, and perhaps most importantly - I could turn off the lights and vanish. I spent many hours like that, wishing I could disappear. This was my haven; a place of refuge from the storms that brewed in my life, both real and imagined.

Dad and I like to joke about the times we spent in that closet, bonding. Sometimes we even moved a fan in to get some circulation going. It could get pretty stuffy. He gave me fatherly advice and listened when I cried. In many ways I grew up in there. I can’t recall the exact words of wisdom that emanated from that room and though there’s no doubt they helped to mold and shape me as I stumbled through adolescence, more important was the fact that Dad took the time I needed to see me through it. Thank God for Dad. (Of course thanks to Mom too. What she and I shared wasn’t a closet, and will be addressed in a later writing.) Thank God too for a place I could go to figure things out - away from my siblings and the other craziness of life.

Speaking of craziness. Today I was nearly a crazy woman. At first glance it’s going to be difficult to see how this day and the days of my closet adolescence are connected, but it’ll soon be clear.

We headed out to Virginia Beach to buy Koen’s Boy Scout uniform, looking forward to having lunch together at our favorite place, Chipotle. Everything was going smoothly until we pulled out of our driveway, and the tears began to flow. Karter and Lisse cried inconsolably for the first hour we were out. Here is where I will tell the story slightly in high gear so as not to mentally wear the reader out. I wound up sitting on the floor of the van between the front and middle seats feeding them their lunch while we were stuck in traffic. With me turned around backwards and on the floorboard, hence not navigating, Arie dislodged us from the traffic, only for me to realize he was going the wrong way on the interstate. After lunch, Koen spilled an entire soda on the floor of the van. Then we were off to the Boy Scout store where they didn’t have one item of clothing in Koen’s size after we drove nearly 1.5 hours one way to buy his uniform. We then made our way to run another errand, during which time my normally wonderful husband morphed into a jerk. Out of respect for my husband I’ll spare these details. We were sitting in a parking lot while Arie looked for directions to our final stop when I decided to get out of the car and walk over to a Starbucks. I needed a few moments alone and I was annoyed with Arie, so the thought of a frappuccino was consoling.

I was slightly steaming as I stood in the store contemplating the notion that I’d somehow got back at Arie by not offering to get him a Starbucks. If you know Arie, you know this would be a major letdown for him. I felt justified, even triumphant, and finally peaceful just getting away from the stress that was in the van. As the glow was just building in me, either from the triumph or from my previously noted steaming, I got a text message and photo from Arie. He said, and I’m quoting here, “:( I’m sorry I was a..."



I about died laughing! After chuckling at Arie’s photo and feeling like he had sufficiently apologized, I texted him back with an offer to buy him Starbucks. He responded with a request for an iced coffee and I patiently waited in line not realizing the horror that had begun unfolding in the van. Yep, it only got worse from there, just when I thought things were looking up.

I crossed the parking noticing that Arie was no longer in the front seat. As I opened the door he said something like “you have no idea…” Lisse, who had not pooped at all the previous day during our trip to Busch Gardens had had massive diarrhea while sitting in her car seat and blew out her diaper. Arie said he actually heard it. He might have even gone on mumbling something incoherent about a geyser afterward, but Koen distracted me with a request to go in the grocery store for something to drink. I think he was partly trying to get away from the smell. Climbing out of the van, Koen inadvertently kicked over my mocha frappuccino, spilling it on my floor mat. I could tell he felt horrible for spilling another drink, so after my initial ARE YOU KIDDING ME? reaction, I dialed myself back and told him to let it go and that it was okay. I handed him my wallet and sent him off for his drink.

Upon pulling out the mat to clean it, I unveiled a soggy floorboard indicating a possible problem with our a/c leaking under the carpet. Then Arie, while cleaning up Lisse, began to laugh hysterically. I turned thinking I was about to witness my husband’s nervous breakdown when I heard him say, “She’s peeing!” He could barely get the words out of his mouth from laughing so hard. Whatever parts of her clothing that weren’t covered by poop were at that point soaked in urine, as was a portion of the carpet where it had run off the pad.

The next thing I knew, Koen was opening the back hatch with no drink in his hand and he was crying. When I asked what was wrong and why he had no drink he said, “I can’t do anything right today.” I consoled him and had him repeat after me saying, “Today is the day from hell.” I thought I said it as calmly as I could and though I was giving him permission to say his first ever 4-letter word the day seemed to warrant it. His lips parted into a strained smile that said “I don’t really want you to make me smile while I’m trying to feel sorry for myself.” Once I told him about Lisse peeing on the floor we both fell into each other laughing. I told him, “I KNOW! IT’S A HEAVENLY CONSPIRACY! All the drama,” I said, “must be a heavenly conspiracy to keep us from going home.” Maybe God was keeping us out of some sort of trouble by stalling us with so many distractions.

There are detailed portions of the story I have left out, like Karter almost ripping the signal arm off the steering column, Arie missing our exit (again), and Lisse biting me, but you get the gist I’m sure. It really WAS the day from hell. At the time I could only imagine that short of an auto accident, an acute medical condition (each of us was already having an acute mental condition), or a death in the family, nothing could have made the day more stressful. I said as much to Arie, then thought better of it and acknowledged it could have indeed been much worse.

Speeding as fast as we could safely get away with, we bee-lined for home. After more screaming, all three kids finally fell asleep, leaving me and Arie with some much needed quiet time. For a time we sat silent or maybe I should say shell-shocked before I inquired, “How’s pizza for dinner? I’m not cooking.” Arie asked if I meant the frozen from the store variety. “I said I’m NOT cooking,” shooting him a playful, yet serious look while he laughed.

We eventually made it home, fed and bathed the kids and played until they were exhausted from repeatedly climbing onto the couch only to be dragged off again each time. After one last bottle and teeth cleaning, they went down without so much as a whimper. Here is where I was thanking God again.

After lying Karter in his bed I stepped into the bathroom to brush my teeth and carry on my nightly routine, which includes stepping into my closet so that my electric toothbrush doesn’t wake the baby if it rattles against my teeth. (He’s sometimes a very light sleeper.) I stepped in and out of my closet a few times before pausing inside. With the door pulled shut and the light on, I looked around and pondered the quietness of the space. Actually, it was more like I was soaking up the peace. I began having flashbacks of my childhood days in the closet and what it meant to me then. It occurred to me that at that very moment I was doing exactly what I did as a kid – taking refuge from the storm that was my day.

Thankfully, nowadays I have better coping skills than when I was a kid. However, admittedly there are still days when I step back into my closet, shut the door, turn off the light, and hope no one comes looking for me. Having kids can drive parents to get creative with their hiding spots. Sometimes you just can’t get away from all the noise, sometimes you don’t want to, but during those inevitable times when life gets to be too much or too loud - there’s always the closet. :)

Know Where You're Going & Plan the Trip!

A man named Henry Emerson Fosdick once said, "He who chooses the beginning of a road chooses the place it leads to. It is the means that determine the end."

We often hear "the end justifies the means", but have we really thought about what that means for the life-changing journeys we are on? This literally means that our actions are acceptable if they help us achieve our desired end result.

This begs two questions:
What is our desired end result?
AND
What means are we willing to use to get there?

We can't just focus on the result we're wanting without bringing into sharp focus the means we're going to use to accomplish what we want. So many people talk about having a plan. The importance of having a plan and working that plan cannot be underscored enough, because failing to plan is itself a plan to fail.

I've spent a tremendous amount of time questioning my weight loss and fitness plan. I have it set as a daily spark goal for myself - to start each day reviewing my goals. If I'm not daily committing myself to focus on making right choices for my health, then I am going to be more prone to letting those choices be made for me. Does it take extra work? Yes. I plan ahead for meals and snacks and steal time during my son's swim practice to hit the gym. These are things I plan out ahead of time so that I don't find myself at the end of the week saying, "A whole week flew by and I didn't work out once!" or "I got caught up at an appointment, etc. and had to hit the drive-through for lunch." These things happen when we don't plan.

It's not enough to just say I want to weigh 135 lbs. I'm letting myself down if I only visualize myself wearing a size 5. That would be like wanting to take a dream trip to Italy. You're given the airline tickets (joining www.SparkPeople.com for free), but forget to plan the trip! I'm committed to NOT throwing away that opportunity. Now it's a matter of replicating the success I had the first time when I lost 61 pounds before becoming pregnant with the twins. It's not rocket science. It's just determination to feel better about where I am physically and deciding that where I am now is not where I want, deserve, or need me to be.

Is Courage Mine To Be Had? Is It Yours?

All around me are the living, breathing examples of courage born by those who never thought themselves capable of their feats. Where did they come from? How were they prepared - or were they? Is courage an innate character trait or are we simply thrust into it under a given set of circumstances? I believe that courage is what we exhibit when pulling ourselves up by the bootstraps under the strain of dangerous or stressful life events, but also what we exhibit in the smallest of ways, in simply stepping out of our box and being who we are called on to be in spite of our fears.

I just finished reading Always Looking Up by Michael J. Fox. In it he draws a distinction between the work he does with his foundation, a result of his being stricken with Parkinson's Disease, and those who undertake a noble cause not because they have been touched personally by the cause itself, but are involved simply because it's the right or just thing. Of course I'm wildly paraphrasing, but his point was about courage. He was courageous for taking on PD, yet it was a natural extension of his circumstances. So, are we all bound by the same rule - only to stretch ourselves into those areas where we are likewise affected? What about a passion for that cause unrelated to ourselves; one where we throw ourselves at the solution with abandon just because it's worthy?

When we identify that which is worthy, what keeps us standing on the sidelines? We can pretend it's a conflict of interest or schedule, we're just too tired, it's none of our business, or simply that our voice will be drowned out. Besides, who are we that anyone would be inclined to listen to us anyway? What could we possibly have to offer that hasn't been tried already by others with more money, a louder voice, or more political weight to throw around?

Here's the deal: it doesn't matter! We're not called to be who we are based on what those around us are doing with their time and efforts. We are here to maintain a since of integrity, in essence to be the person on the outside that truly coincides with the person on the inside - the same within as without. Isn't that what we look for in the mirror, in others and what we hope to instill in our future generations? Don't live a lie. Live with passion, and at every opportunity, stand up and be counted because the courage is in the standing up and if you are beaten down in the getting back up again.

I'm making a stand not to live my life in fear anymore. I won't be discouraged by naysayers, nor downtrodden by those who feel challenged by what I stand for or by the success that may come my way. It's like the proverbial kid in the classroom itching to ask the question that is really on every student's mind. I used to be that kid, fearful to ask the question because of what others might think. Now I know that by speaking up, not only am I destined to find my answers, but in the process help others find their answers as well. Courage - it's contagious. Today Michael J. Fox gave it to me, just as I hope to someday give it to others, starting with my children.

Thank you, Carolyn and Jackie, for making me believe that what I have to say matters. Today you are my heroes, along with Michael J. Fox.

Let's Be Honest: Reconstruction Sucks

The first four inflations of my tissue expanders were a breeze. I thought the rest of this process would be a walk in the park. Then the fifth, sixth, and now seventh inflations have come and gone. Well, gone isn't entirely accurate. The fifth created intense pain for three days and was similar to the initial pain of my surgery. The sixth caused that same level of pain that lasted for four days. As of yesterday, my seventh came and is still lingering. I expect it to last at least four days. I may have two whole relatively pain-free days before my next inflation since they are once a week. Thank God for my son or I would be in a much larger heap of pain.

Waking up is the worst part. As with anyone who suffers aches and pains, they are normally more manifest upon lifting yourself out of bed during the first moments of your day. Mine is no different. I find myself holding onto my left "boob" like it's in danger of falling off. I clinch my left arm across my chest under the breast mound and hold tight to the right side of my sleep shirt. Meanwhile my right hand finds it's way as far down the edge of our pillow top mattress as possible. As I tug with my right hand to pull myself up, I hold my breath to stifle any attempt my brain might make at registering the pain as a gasp, thereby waking my husband or a sleeping baby. This is how I wake up most mornings since June 17, 2010, and how I will function for the foreseeable future.

Making my way to the bathroom, still holding my left breast mound in place, I locate my dose of morning pills that includes a Valium (for the instant muscles spasms) and ibuprofen I hope will kick in before I'm called on to lift a 25 pound baby from a crib. It's funny how I used to resent having to take my daily Synthroid (I have hypothyroidism) because I've never been a pill taker. Yet here I am now with my little S-M-T-W-T-F-S container to keep them all straight. I look forward to conveniently "losing" that pill container in the not distant future!

My breast mounds, because I can't really begin to think of them as boobs to be honest, are beginning to take a shape I can recognize. Who would've thought this would be fraught with dangers? I've grown so accustomed to not having any boobs that I have begun to move differently through the house. I found myself cutting corners more sharply, or only opening one side of the pantry door because let's face it, my boobs weren't calling for me to open the other side to accommodate a wider load. Well, all of that is a thing of the past. In the last 48 hours my boobs have run into doors, walls, and the refrigerator door. Come on, really! I don't recall this being an issue before. The really funny thing is that I mostly can't feel it except that in that instant my forward progress is thrown off as I'm launched into an unintended rotation, thereby hitting my other boob on the pantry's door frame. It's just too odd not to tell.

See, someday I'll have all this over and done with and these memories will begin to fade. For now at least I can recount them and use the humor to help me over the hump that is this reconstruction process. Or would it be more accurate to say humps?

Ergonomic Boobs

Sharing a room with an infant can be a challenge, especially at bedtime. Our son goes to sleep hours before us and while we prepare for bed we have to pay close attention to not making an abundance of noise so as not to wake him. Tonight we were in the bathroom doing our usual prep routine, which recently has included rubbing lotion on my mastectomy scars. The lotion, Elta Lite, has helped to soften and smooth the scarred area. According to the doctor this should make my reconstruction look nicer.

Arie and I were joking around about something completely unrelated to my boobs, when we both began laughing and couldn't contain our noise. I leaned in to whisper something in his ear and when he stepped back he laughed even harder and told me he only heard half of what I'd said. The rest, he said, had sounded like swishing noises. I invited him into my office, a.k.a. my closet so we wouldn't wake the baby. We laughed so hard we fell into each other, hugging, and I told him how grateful I am that we understand each others sense of humor. Trust me, if I told you what had us laughing so hard you'd think we were quite strange. Some things are meant to be kept just between a husband and wife. Having said that, you are seriously going to wonder what I would feel the need to hold in such close confidence given what I'm about to divulge. . .

While we were hugging and laughing, I half jokingly asked him if he wanted to "feel me up". This has been a constant ritual since the inflations of my tissue expanders began. I think it's important that my husband really like the size and feel of my boobs since he's the one who will get all the pleasure from them once this whole reconstruction is complete. (Sounds like we're renovating, which I guess is sort of accurate.) This was his first opportunity to feel them since I had my last inflation. As he reached for my boobs with both hands - now mind you this wasn't a sensual thing by any means, but more like holding a peach firmly in your hands while contemplating whether it's the perfect firmness that makes you want to buy it - I told him he might want to feel the right one because it's more round. First he felt only the right one, then the left, and agreed with me that the right side was indeed more round. The left one feels slightly misshapen because the tissue expander has inflated somewhat more awkwardly than the other side. That's normal.

I said, "Aren't you glad the implants won't feel like these?" What I have now actually feels like rocks under my chest, a.k.a. (according to Arie) man pecks. I can actually make them flex up and down like Hulk Hogan, but I digress. Arie then reached up and put both hands on my boobs. He gave them a few good squeezes, then declared they'd be good for push-ups because they're "ergonomic". We both about died laughing! I never thought of having ergonomic boobs, but I guess that might be the best thing that comes out of this whole mastectomy. My husband will be happy and his hands will never grow weary because his wife's boobs are custom made to fit his palm size! I'd like to think he'd be equally considerate if he were having penis reconstruction. LOL

And it's Only 10:31 A.M.

to bed, 9 pm
up with Karter at 10:30 pm
up all night
5:30 am, Karter sleeps
6 am Arie kisses me bye, says Lisse is up
Lisse up, play, bottle, snotty
Lisse down
reprieve
Lisse AND Karter up, snotty, crying
feeding, crying, snotty, can't breathe
nose sucker...they hate it!
crying, rubbing snot all over mouths and noses
smell the coffee, can't get to it
interrupted feeding...over and over...wiping snot
wow, Karter has another tooth
Oops...stepped in something.
Not sure if it's rice cereal or snot. Yuck.
Cleaning...
More snot...internet research...
crap, no medicines for this for kids under 4.
Pausing, silence
And it's only 10:31 am.
here we go again with more snot and crying...

The Dreaded Click

My daughter Lisse has a special ability. She is able to make a clicking sound about as loud as a bottlenose dolphin. Thankfully she doesn't click that fast or we would all be quite concerned about her genetics. However, this whole clicking thing is interesting to me and did I say loud? Oh yes.

It reminds me of my mom's whistle. When I was a kid it was understood that we were not to be any farther away from our mom than the distance her whistle could travel. In hindsight that was still too far to be away from mom considering her whistle could probably travel a mile! No kidding, she has a Lisse-like amazing ability to produce a whistle that you definitely want to wear hearing protection for should you be standing next to her. She blows out to whistle, which is something I have never been able to do, but my son Koen is very capable of. I'm beginning to think it's a genetic thing that skips generations like some twins. Oh, I might be onto something there.

So, back to the clicking. Recently Arie and I spent a nice evening together watching a movie. The time together was lovely and we desperately needed to unwind. The babies had been in bed a good, long time. We were able to watch the whole movie with no interruptions. I don't think we even had to stop for a potty break - a highly unusual accomplishment for us.

After the movie, we headed to our bedroom to turn in for the night. We brushed our teeth, did our potty business, then settled in for some much-needed rest. Both of us had our iPhones in hand for a short time, setting our alarm clocks, checking our e-mail one last time, etc. I even did a little reading of "In Praise of Stay-at-Home Moms" on my e-reader for a time before turning off my phone and setting it down next to the bed. Arie and I kissed each other good night, laid our heads down, and nestled into our comfy pillows. Not one whole minute went by, within which we'd not even begun to fully relax our muscles to allow for sleep and here it came. . .

Here is our exchange in those moments:

Audri: "Did you hear that?"
Arie: "Yep."
Audri: "Is that what I think it is?"
Arie: "Yep."
Audri: "Crap, she's wide awake!"
Arie: "Yeah."

(Those who don't really know my husband think this is his typical exchange. Lots of "yeahs" and "yeps". That's not really true for the record, but on this night it actually made for a little comic relief.)

We breathed a collective sigh.

So much for a good night's sleep. Arie had to be up early for work and I was on baby watch. The dreaded click had just indicated that I was not even close to being able to lie down. Dragging myself from the bed, I headed to Lisse's room to find her standing at her crib railing clicking like tomorrow had already come. She was already talking to me by the time I had her rail down and was lifting her from what should have been her sanctuary of slumber for at least another seven hours. I carried her to the living room where she was treated to a fresh one (a.k.a. diaper) and a cold one (a.k.a. bottle, not beer). Surprisingly, in spite of her initial bright-eyed, bushy-tailed appearance the clean diaper and soothing bottle zapped what was left of her energy. I would have bet you my next well-earned pedicure she was going to be up for a smooth hour at minimum. Imagine my relief when she was rubbing her eyes and back in bed in less than 20 minutes. Whew! Situation averted! It was time to finally hit the hay and as I was drifting into sleep I think I was actually praying that the dreaded click would not return.

Author's Note:
I understand now, ironically, that it was my mom who taught Lisse the "dreaded click." LOL Lisse also learned from Memere how to "whistle" for the dogs, only Lisse's whistle is more like a high-pitched, F sharp from the throat. LOL