In which the world thinks I hate animals (again)

Aside from one anonymous angry e-mail I got about the fact that I didn't like a certain drug, the only truly negative feedback I've ever received on this site was the time that I had the gall to suggest that the act of acquiring a pet was basically saying to me that I was unwelcome in your home*. The pro-pet contingent was up in arms over my suggestion that pet ownership precluded us (meaning me and whomever the pet owner might be) from having a certain kind of relationship; the "you can't tell me what to do in my own home" response was also quite vociferous; and the worst response - a well written, but sharply pointed "if your friendship comes with those sorts of conditions attached, I'm better off not knowing you" - was something that I had been completely unprepared for (especially considering I thought the person who had written it and I were, at the very least, friendly) and stung quite a bit.

    It was surprising to me then, and continues to confound me now, that the limitations placed on relationships by my illnesses are seen as unreasonable, extreme and beyond understanding, while the limitations that people voluntarily impose on relationships - say, you don't date smokers because you don't like kissing someone who tastes like tobacco, or you're not really friendly with people who go to bars all the time because you've outgrown your barhopping stage - are seen as completely normal, routine, and worthy of respect.

Let me break it down for you a little bit more - Take my example of pets. If you own a pet, it is an actual impediment to me being able to spend time in your physical space. I know that your cat's litter box doesn't smell to you, and that your dogs would never dare to shed, but for someone like me (who is allergic to all sorts of dander and fur, and hypersensitive to smells), your animals are indeed as much of a physical barrier in our relationship as the stairs going up to your apartment, or the perfume you can't seem to remember not to spritz before meeting me.  I have had to leave more than one family occasion because of a reaction to an animal (or the detritus that the animal has left behind, no matter how well you think you've vacuumed), and more than once, I have been either hospitalized or required additional medical attention (or a new drug regimen) for the same reason. [Trust me: there is nothing like a course of steroids to convince me to send my regrets next time.]

Hopefully, this clears up the idea that just locking the animal in another room while I am there means that everything will be fine.  That is far from the most likely outcome.  The most likely outcome is that my allergies or asthma will start up the minute I walk through your door - even though I've already taken prophylactic meds, just to be there - and that it will go downhill - to varying degrees - from there.

I am not saying that you can not HAVE pets: Although I have somewhat of a reputation now as an anti-animal person - I do not, in fact, dislike them.  I think puppies are adorable and little kitten feet are so scrumptious and padded and purrfect that I can't even.  The truth is that I have had to harden my heart to these snuggly little guys out of necessity: so that it just isn't one more thing that I can't have. Trust me, though -> I binge watch cute animal shows, and am definitely not immune to the allure of a waggely tail.

BUT, let's just be clear about the facts here - your pet-friendly house is significantly less (and sometimes completely un-) NTE-friendly. Those are just the truths of the matter, and me saying so doesn't make me some sort of barbarian animal hater: it just means that I'm pointing out the limitations that your choices are creating in our relationship.

It means that I don't get to drop everything and sack out on SisterCh's couch for a week to help after Baby D is born, because an hour in her four room, four cat apartment, and my skin is raw and red and raised, and my nebulizer ain't cutting it anymore.  That is not to say that sometimes I don't bite the bullet and choose the nebulizer and the hives and the steroids and the ER, because I value the people I love and want to spend time with them - the same way I hoard spoons until I have enough to visit my 3-steps-up sister or UJ and his 'your wheelchair won't fit through the entryway' house - these are just the kinds of sacrifices spoonies like me make all the time.

Pointing them out does not make me the Wicked Witch of Whereever Petless People Live.   It literally is just me asking for the acknowledgement that maybe your having animals or steps or a husband who bathes in Axe body spray are all things that I have to accommodate: And that sometimes? I am just not capable of doing so.

It would be a nice change of pace if everything stopped being my fault. 

If people could recognize that that I might love to just be able to drop in for a few minutes and a cup of tea, but with those steps, it'd cost me a week's worth of energy, and I can't do that right now.  If someone would acknowledge that part of living with a brood of cats, dogs - or even toddlers who bring home every germ from day care - is that sometimes your friend/sister/cousin with the wackjob immune system can't come to birthday parties, or girls' nights, or potlucks.

Something I often feel that gets overlooked is that part of the ease of a relationship - the familiarity and flexibility and fluidity of it - is hampered not JUST by my illnesses (which are not choices, btw) but also by your life decisions - having animals, living in a 3rd floor walk-up, only having late night parties, etc.  It's not that there is anything wrong about any of those choices, but let's just stop making this all MY issue, all MY fault -

YOU have made decision that work out great for you 98% of the time: Happy puppy smiles! so many great neighbors! Living in the suburbs! Drinking till the bars close!-  but I happen to fit into the 2% that's leftover and kind of sucks.  The inconveniences and unfair factors related to your choices - like having to lug your groceries/stroller up those three flights of stairs, or having to walk your dog during a blizzard , or having to wake up the morning after you've closed down the bars- the stuff about your choices that hinders rather than helps. All the stuff that is just part of the deal, and goes along with the decisions you've made.

And me not being able to hang with you or babysit your kids fits into that 2%. It's not about fault - because I'm not trying to BLAME anybody for having animals or stairs or whatever - but it is about getting the fact that I am NOT at fault, if you can see the difference. 

It's all in the perspective, and if I can just get people to see that I'm not saying you have to make different choices, or you have to only do things in a way that means I can participate (Because, truth? That is boring. I can participate in very few things, and would not like everybody to have to scale back to my level), but I am saying that you need to realize that your choices have consequences for our relationship, and that sometimes they will really suck.

It's seeing things more from a "well, I've got cats, so you can't come here, it seems reasonable to me that I should go there instead" kind of perspective instead of "well, I've got cats, so I guess you don't want to ever come here, the end."  It's about having a relationship with others where it's not all about me asking for things that people see as accommodations and impositions, and more about acknowledging and framing it as "hey this is OUR issue; how do we go about getting around it?"

Unfortunately, too often, the procedure in my life has normally been

• Barrier = Can't Do/Go = People Eventually Stop Asking Me To Do Things or 
• Barrier = Go Anyways = Get Much Sicker = That Was Really Unwise instead of 
• Barrier = Can't Do/Go = People Help Me Figure Out A New Plan. 

Because sitting out on things is really starting to chafe, and having people assume that just asking me - knowing I can't go because of X or Y - is good enough is really getting old.

 No: it's not good enough. If you're really interested in maintaining a relationship with me, asking me to do things you know I can't do (like drive or show up at your inaccessible apartment) and saying "Sorry you can't make it!" is no longer good enough for me.

Let's figure out how to do better.

*I tried to find that post, but haven't managed it yet. If I do, I'll update with the link.

Taking my own advice

from yesterday, and trying to get ahead of the curve here.  Because today I've got a 24-hr Halter test so I've got to go to the hospital and get all hooked up, and I don't know how much energy I'm going to have tonight, so here's today's post.

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In the interest of keeping things moving, and for all of us Na/No/Blo-ers, a little writerly wisdom:

“What I have since learned is that writing is this incredible gift into yourself– it is one surefire way to discover what it is you know, what you think, how you want to be in the world. Writing can be the ultimate truth teller.”

                                                                                              Rosie Molinary: Welcome Home, You WIll Always Be Safe Here, Dec 2011

Don't t forget to tell some truths today! 
  

On being an auntie (again)

Dear DD ~

 Tomorrow you will be two weeks old. I hope these first two weeks of getting to know your mom and dad, your two big brothers, and as much of our crazy family as possible have been wonderful for you.  I'm sure you're pretty overwhelmed with this whole "being alive" thing: let me give you a clue - the rest of us are too: It never gets old.  Just enjoy the ride as much as you can.

You were the first baby I've ever seen being born, and ~ let me tell you ~ it is not something I'm ever going to forget.  I know you won't remember it, but for the rest of us there (and all of the aunties and uncles and cousins and brothers and grandmas and friends who weren't lucky enough to be in the room at that moment, but who were thinking of you and your mama with all of their might) it was a miracle, a treat, an honor.

If I were going to tell you your story, I could start waaaaay back at the beginning and tell you how hard your Mama and Daddy tried to make you into a reality: how they took all different sort of tests and medicines and shots and procedures to make sure that someday, there would be a little you.  But that's not the fun stuff, not really.  The fun stuff started two weeks after all of that when Mama found out you were coming.  Soon, you had all sorts of nicknames: Baby Cold, Little Nugget, Lil Man, but the one Mama & Dad used the most was Baby Dash.

We had to keep it a secret for a while, because being a baby is a dangerous proposition, but thankfully, you were up for the challenge, and soon everybody knew that there was a little guy - a little you! - in your mom's tummy. Well, almost everybody.  There was that little mix-up at your cousin's birthday party in May, when Auntie N's sister said "So I hear it's a boy!" in front of your brothers, who didn't know yet.  Poor Mom was so upset she hid in the bathroom for a while, only coming out after mean Auntie J refused to bring her food in for her. ;)

But you kept on growing big and strong in Mom's tummy, and soon there wouldn't be any hiding you; not that she wanted to.  Mama always looked lovely pregnant, even when her poor piggys got all swollen and she felt like she had "a face full of chins" - I think she was gorgeous the entire time, and she was lucky enough that (up until the last month or so) you didn't really cause too many problems.  But then there was heartburn and not sleeping and all sorts of discomfort, and by the time September rolled around, Mama seemed pretty ready for you to be born.  Of course, like a true NTE's Larger family baby, you had your own ideas about that, and kept everybody waiting until the very last week!

Even when your labor started, you took your sweet time in coming out, playing peek-a-boo with the midwives for the course of an entire day, till your poor mom was so sore and so tired and so... DONE that I'm surprised she didn't leave Daddy for the anesthesiologist when he came to give her her epidural.

Of course, that was almost 20 hours after her water broke, and 10 hours since she'd been in active labor, and 5 hours since she was at 9 centimeters only to go back to 8 when you decided you weren't quite sure that you wanted to make your entrance that day. 

Your mama is a warrior, kid: and don't you ever forget it.  I know she'll doubt it more than once in the next couple of months (years, eternities), but she wasn't the one watching the battle, she was too busy fighting it. As an observer, let me tell you that she fought FIERCE.  I wanted to sing her every song about heroes I'd ever heard:  to have Beyonce echoing "Who Run The World" down the empty corridors, "Eye of the Tiger" blasting out over and over again to help her stay pumped up.  Not that she needed it, but because she deserved it.  

In a surprising turn of events, your mama, who swears more on any given day then just about anybody I know (except for Auntie J, of course) ~ said only one word, over and over that day: Ow.  A multiverse of curse words at her disposal (and I thought up some really good ones later on, but that's skipping ahead), and all your Mama said was OW.  But it wasn't a nothing word, that ow.  It wasn't a throwaway or a waste - she meant it: Every. Single. OW. 

Each was a powerful OW, for sure.

 And behind them, I could hear how scared she was - for you, for her, for how long it was taking and how hard it was turning out to be, and the needles and the epidural (which she did not want at all, originally) - and, eventually, I could hear how exhausted she was, and how low her reserves were getting, but through it all, her OW was a freaking powerhouse of a word: A magic spell that she was weaving around the both of you, calling you, trying to get you to come out, to be here, to be safe at last. To be hers. 

I get chills just thinking of it.  How all day she moaned and whispered and prayed for you to just come out and be hers. 

Of course, there was also no small amount of whining that you weren't out already or ordering people around (Daddy especially got in trouble for things like moving his hands, going to the bathroom, or attempting to stretch), but who could blame her? She was doing all the heavy lifting, and the rest of us were just the back up.

And the back up team worked some magic in that room as well, I'll have you know: Grammy soothed with her tales of experience, her "no press here"s and  her trademarked 'brushing the hair of your forehead' move, which your mom usually doesn't allow, but couldn't get enough of that day;
Auntie J became some sort of squatting sumo-dancer, holding Mama's weight while they swayed together, trying to outlast the latest contractions, and told funny stories about how Papa used to bring them presents from the gift shop (which was really the lost and found) at work;
Daddy was a back-rubber extraordinaire, climbing into the bed behind Mama at one point and finding the exact right position (from which he could not deviate, not even for a second) to help the back labor pains feel just a little less devestating;
I did important things like guilt-eating donuts, trying to help Mama understand that taking the epidural was not a sign of failure, but a sign of progress that would help get you here safe and sound, and counting to ten really loudly and slowly.  (Also, like a dope, picking up Mama's leg at one point because she couldn't do it herself and the intern who was doing it left the room.  And that is why Auntie NTE's arm is still not working correctly today.  But it was worth it. :) )
Even Uncle Kand Papa managed to stop by after work (and, handily, after the epidural) to pass out cigars and tell you to hurry on up, respectively. And all across the Clan, phones beeped and Facebook lit up with all sorts of "C'mon kid!" and "You can do it Ch & DD!" messages.  We even had some 'haunting' visits, as the bathroom light kept shutting itself off, and we all decided that Nana, a constant "When you leave the room, shut of the light!" fanatic, wanted to let us know she was rooting for you guys too. 

We loved you already, you lucky devil, you.

But your Mama worked hardest of all, and longest of all, and eventually, after a day and some hours worth of labor, you were finally ready to make your final approach.  Hours of "Ow" and magic spells came down to a few more hours of pushing and counting and breathing and more magic spells and holding our breath and a couple more rounds of peek-a-boo with the midwife.

But eventually, there was your tiny head!- not feeling so tiny to your Mom at the moment - and all that hair! (You're our first really hairy baby, you know... most of your cousins were capital B Bald, but you're covered all over with dark downy hair.) You sort of had that cone-head thing going for you, at first, but then there was your squishy little face, your shoulders, and all the rest, and there you were!

Baby DD, all born and pink, and adorable. 3:34 am, Sept 27th.

By the time the midwife passed you to your nurse, your cone head had somehow rearranged itself into a perfectly small, round noggin, and you started crying before they even started rubbing you down. 

All fingers and toes, and fuzzy arms and legs, and heart shaped ears, and long-tree-frog toes, and button nose accounted for!
Your dad picked you up and you met your mom for the first time, and there were tears and smiles and congratulations all around!  (Grammy and I may have sniffled a little in the background, but you'll never be able to prove it. )

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And this is the part I will never tell you, DD ~ about how badly your Mama scared us after you were born.  How there was so much blood, that I knew, even though I'd never been in a delivery room before, that something bad was happening.  How it just kept coming, and with it came a swarm of new doctors and nurses and medicines, and machines, and how they all had that air of 'not panic' I know so well from hospitals and hospice workers.  'Not panic' must be a thing they practice, with the intended goal being that they keep their cool in emergency situations, but it has the adverse effect on any layman who's ever dealt with it before.  When they started buzzing, my heart  - so close to the surface now, thanks to your safe arrival - literally froze.  I watched the monitors as Mama's blood pressure zoomed down to meet one of mine, and searched the stone faces of the newly arrived doctors as the blood just kept pouring out.

And that's the only way I can describe it: literally pouring out. And when the meds they gave her didn't work, within five minutes, she was bundled up and was on her way down to the operating room, accompanied by the flurry of doctors and nurses and midwives, while Daddy, Grammy, your nurse and I were left in a now silent room.  It's the eeriest worst non-sound ever, honey bunch, and I am praying to a God I don't believe in that you will never have to hear it in your lifetime, even though I know it's a wasted prayer.  I was holding you as they took your mom away, and she was looking for you and I said "He's right here; he's fine. He's ok." Holding back tears, because now her face, instead of the warrior face I'd been seeing all day, was the scared face of my baby sister who used to curl up in my lap when strangers came into the room - and I told her "You're going to be just fine." in my most "I'm the boss here, I know what I'm talking about" voice as they rolled her out of the room. 

The times I use that voice the most? Are the times I feel it the least.

And then the nurse said this wasn't uncommon, and she was sure everything would be fine and that she had to take you to the nursery, and I passed you on to Daddy and took a couple of pictures and tried to stay calm and not think about how the pictures I had could be the only pictures I ever got of you with your Mom.  And I tried to use my fake "I know what I'm talking about" voice with Grammy, who never really buys it, but at least it stopped her from bursting into tears at that second, which is what we both felt like doing.  And then she went for a cigarette (which is her "I know what I'm doing" coping mechanism) and Daddy and the nurse took you to the nursery and I was left alone to pace a room with my baby sister's blood on the floor. (And her/your placenta sitting on a tray table looking gross ~ which, let me tell you, if things had gone differently, your mom wanted to EAT that.  Well, take it in pills, anyways.  And I literally thought about how it looked like liver and how I might possibly throw up on that same exact floor.)

And then I called Auntie J and tried to tell her that you were here! and the scary stuff about your mom! without freaking out too much! Which I guess I didn't pull off, because she later told Grammy I sounded like I was freaking out.  But whatever. And then I eavesdropped on the nurses at the nurses station, listening for any news from the OR and Grammy came back, and the intern came back to tell us that your mom had stopped bleeding almost as soon as she'd gotten into the OR and all was well, no tears or anything, just contractions that forgot to stop after you were born, pushing out the only thing that was left in there, Mama's blood.  And although she needed a transfusion later that day, she is fit as a fiddle now, and that's the happiest ending in happy ending land, for sure.
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But I won't tell you that part.  I'll stop the story a few hours later, when your mom and dad are both sleeping in their beds and you are sleeping in your little rolling see-through bassinet and I'm watching the sun come up over Cambridge & Somerville, an area where our people (at least your Mama's people), have lived on/off for at least 100 years, thinking about how now we have a new people.

 I'll finish it with me seeing my baby sister and her husband, and her brand new baby, all dreaming the dreams of the innocent, or the warriors, or the rewarded.

 Whatever you guys were dreaming about that day, it couldn't have been anything better than what was actually happening, what was brand new, and vividly real & miraculous in that hospital room that September morning.  A new family, starting their first day together.

Welcome to the world, Baby D.  Thanks for getting here safely, for helping your Mama realize she's a warrior, and for looking at me with those big dark eyes.  I'd say "I couldn't love you any more than I do right now", but all of your cousins have dis-proven that theory already, as I love them more and more every day, year, eternity.  So you better get used to your Auntie NTE, pal, because I'm sticking around.  Now, convince Mama & Daddy that 40 minutes is too far away, ok?


 

Today's tidbits of wisdom

Might just give you an idea how well I am dealing with all the family drama around here, and the fact that a person who's supposed to be a grown-up thinks it's OK to be selfish, OK to ignore the consequences of his actions, and lives behind a great wall of denial. 

First up, some advice that I'm finding so difficult to put into practice, but that's not keeping me from trying, from Danielle La Porte,

"Want to improve your communication skills?
Then communicate.
Our most common communication blunder is not that we’re insensitive, or forceful, or misdirected. It’s that we fail to communicate at all. 

We swallow. We hedge. We delay. We punish with silence. We freeze with fear. We open our mind to assumptions but keep our mouths shut. We lock down. We just don’t say anything.

Most often, even weak or wobbly communication is far better than shutting down completely. Sincerity and courage go a lot further than “polished” communication skills any day.

Have the conversation. Say how you feel. Ask the question. Bring it up. Stumble with good intentions. Fly with an open heart. Communicate.”

 When you grew up in a house like mine, where your opinion was neither asked for nor appreciated by certain people, and where intimidation is still a daily occurrence, that is a lot easier said than done.  However, trying to turn myself into an actual adult, who takes responsibility for her own actions and expects others to do the same, I've realized that I can't do it by keeping my mouth shut (however much that is my comfort zone).  I'm not too pleased with this realization, people, but I'm doing my best to work through my discomfort and other people's pissy attitudes. 


 Which brings us to some vital truth from Melissa McEwan, of Shakesville: 

No one who has ever said "life is too short" to me has ever meant, "What can I do to make amends for having hurt you and restore trust between us as quickly as possible?"

They have always and only ever meant, "Your boundaries are stupid, and I am super impatient with your attempts to make me respect them, so here is some emotional manipulation to try to coerce you into letting me continue to treat you like shit without consequences."

What I'm saying is: I really hate the expression "life is too short."”

Next, a lesson from John Green:

“The good times and the bad times both will pass. It will pass. It will get easier. But the fact that it will get easier does not mean that it doesn’t hurt now. And when people try to minimize your pain they are doing you a disservice. And when you try to minimize your own pain you’re doing yourself a disservice. Don’t do that. The truth is that it hurts because it’s real. It hurts because it mattered. And that’s an important thing to acknowledge to yourself. But that doesn’t mean that it won’t end, that it won’t get better. Because it will.” 

Gonna work on not doing myself any more disservices, and I hope you do the same.  See you tomorrow, peoples.