"But use a feather when you hit me," their larger than life voices chanted.
My first teaching job was one replacing a well-known Chattanooga minister's daughter who'd given it her all for a year. The room I received was in a modified auditorium where a Special Education Class was the prior year. My classroom was separated from my team and the room had nothing but loads of junky furniture and files in it. I once heard a fellow teacher ask what page the other was on, and I was puzzled because the only books in my classroom were books I'd bought at McKay's. Inner city in Hamilton County was very different in 1998.
My first class of third graders is one I think of from time to time. Recently, I decided to look up some of the names from the roster on Google. Twelves of the fifteen boys' names that I could find had mugshots. Often what was shown as their "charge" in the mugshot stemmed back to something similar that they'd do in third grade...stealing, verbal assault, battery, etc. I thought that was a turning point of sorts, when I realized that what I'd done with the class in third grade didn't change their lives forever. It made me melancholy. As teachers, it is ingrained in us that we could be the change agent for children. I guess I never really let "could" resonate and I assumed that "could" really meant ARE. I kind of like to keep thinking the ARE because it helps me keep the focus.
There were many things that plagued me for the students. I would see the children enter the room in the morning and they'd pull out white little wads of paper from their ears when they came in the classroom. Finally, I asked one of the little girls why so many of the children had wadded up paper in their ears when they came to school in the mornings. She told me that they'd put those in their ears so that the roaches wouldn't lay eggs in their ears at night while they slept. So, there were things I couldn't even imagine dealing with and then being expected to come to school to try to learn.
One of the things I decided to try was to copy a Shel Silverstein poem to read daily each week so that they could at least "feel like they could read" until I could figure out how to really teach them to read. You learned how to inventory students for their reading level in college and how to write integrated units, but you never really learned how to teach a nonreader (or a room full of nonreaders) how to read. I came to find that much of the character education we needed in our classroom was found in the Shel Silverstein poems. I noticed that the discipline the children received at home was particularly strict, usually physical. That's when I found a poem about "Hitting" by Shel. I noticed the children would read the poems and really "feel" what the author was saying and that they'd recite the poems when they were upset or in transition.
We read our poem of the week each day for the entire year. By the end of the year, the children could...Read With Their Eyes Shut... ;)
Then, one Spring day, I walked in the room and the students were waiting for me. They were sitting together in their desks as though they'd been talking. Usually, I'd tell them all about the rule of waiting outside the door until I got to the room, but I could tell something was different. It was silent except for the occassional sniffle. One of the little girls, her eyes red and swollen from crying, got up from a seat where they'd all been sitting together, tossed her white ear papers in the trash, looked right in my eyes and said, "Mrs. B., you don't know do you? You don't know? He died. He is dead." One of the students who was trying to lighten the moment said, "I thought he was already dead, but now I'm sad, too." Fanny (the little girl) said, "Shel Silverstein died. We all heard about it this morning."
I don't think I realized until scrolling past a Shel Silverstein poem this morning on Pinterest, but that moment in May of my first year teaching was worth reflecting on. It's moments like that--when the real world collide with things you study that make you, as a teacher, know that what you do is so....real time. I wish all of my students went on to success all because of a Shel Silverstein poetry reading, but the 12 out of 15 statistic shows me that, unfortunately, that is not the case. But the 3 of 15 who didn't have a mugshot online....there's the hope, I suppose, that something made a difference, if not me or a poem, something along the way diverted the 3 from a path of hurt. We try, and that's all we can do, is try.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Thursday, November 25, 2010
It's Better
Looking down at the green tile floor that creaked and seemed to get more uneven by the day, I noticed that the trim on the chalkboard matched the floor and thought that if they'd let me decorate the school, it'd look so much better. Hixson Junior High School. Ninth Grade. Bum-mer. To move the very year I'd entered high school,to a school where being a freshman was still being in "junior high" really stunk. So, to pass time in a setting where learning certainly wasn't the priority, I'd just imagine what it'd be like if I were in charge. since, at times, it seemed no_one_else_was. First off, I'd have referred the kid drooling by the wall to the counselor because he was stoned, daily. Not to mention he was propped up in front of the very wall I wanted to paint an accent yellow. Even cooler, I imagined, would be a place on the wall for us students to dialog back and forth about stuff--right on the wall. I mean, it was Freshman English, shouldn't we write more than do pages from the textbooks? Back to stoned kid-- The teacher would seem disgusted with him, but she never got much farther than the disgust and then ignoring him. Ninth grade was the year everyone did a poetry unit. You read a bunch of poems, copied some down and made up one of your own. Studying proise, rhyme, imagery.....not so much. But doing a nice little poetry unit grabbed my attention from wanting to visually levitate the stoned kid and paint the walls of the classroom buttercup yellow. This one poem made me think really hard. That's the thing about poems. They, to me, are so much more satisfying than say.....visual art where the meaning is usually only in the artist's mind and is as subjective as the day is long. Art...fun in elementary school to be later exluded in high school if you took a music class to be ruined in college when you got a bitter art professor who hadn't a teaching ability in sight. I liked art until it seemed like a secret club of ashtray makers and then it lost my interest. Squirrel! Okay, sorry. Poems depend on your experiences, what's happening at the time you read them and the questions you ask yourself while reading. So, in the 101 Book of Poems there was the Emily Dickens poem about "Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all...." While I was pondering the poem, I could hear my grandmother commenting she had to memorize poems in school and she began to recite something about a tree in which my Aunt Sue joined in. As their voices trailed off still reciting the poem with a sense of accomplishment, I wondered about what Emily Dickens must have had happened when she wrote that poem. At that instant, I knew that I agreed with her. At 14, I would have agreed that it would be better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.
I thought of that poem today, on Thanksgiving, as I looked at the plastic cake carrier. I recalled my Granny Souther preparing several things at once and preparing to go somewhere in her perfect dress and shiny high heels. She made a pot holder look stylish and seasoning an iron skillet a right of passage you hoped to one day grace yourself through. I immediately thought of all the sweet Thanksgivings past. Those where you hustled and bustled to see grandparents who are since gone. Her kitchen still. Her table linens untouched. The culinary smells a gone vapor. I thought of the fullness they, Granny and PawPaw Souther brought to life, to holidays, to everything and I just wondered is it really better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all?
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
What about that road not taken?
***Please note: This is my opinion, not fact. :)
I was watching A&E's "Teach: Tony Danza" and something he said at the very beginning of the show made me think, "What about that road not taken?" I'd safely say that there are two types of people in the world when it comes to listening to teachers talk: 1) Those who would rather not, and 2) Those who actually have a fascination with education. The second group are the minority. So, if you are in the majority, this post will not interest you. Stop reading now. Honestly, I fall in the first group more than you'd think. :)
Each school year when the new year starts, I think several of the same thoughts. Now, how many years is this? I wonder what are my students from each year are up to now? Why does each year feel like the first year? How will this school year end? I also remember that first year.............
My first year was almost the last year. I couldn't think of a harder existence than that defining year. I couldn't have spent more time or money trying to get it figured out. I had an interview at an inner city school near Erlanger just before my wedding. I hadn't even walked across the stage to get my diploma yet. I got a call just before the we left for our honeymoon offering me the job. It was kindergarten. I told the principal I preferred 3rd grade. She hesistated and offered me 3rd grade. Obviously, she knew my long blonde curls, satin bow and sailor dress were better suited for kindergarten in the inner city. However, I was convinced my life would be over if I didn't teach 3rd grade.
Because I had attended UTC, the area didn't seem that rough to me. Boy, was I wrong! It was a very rough area of Chattanooga and I didn't find that out until I decided to offer pick up and drop off service to my parents who couldn't get to the school for conferences. Oh? There's a rule that you don't drive parents/students home without another school personnel in the car with you? How come, as a first year teacher, I didn't find out about rules until I broke one?
In addition to all the rules and norms I was clueless about, there was the race factor. For the first time ever, I was in the minority. It was so interesting. I didn't know that I was in the minority until I stood in front of my class on the first day of school. Before standing in front of my class, I spent hours cleaning and decorating the room. Little did I know, I should have spent hours studying the neighborhoods, the students' stories, the data in the perm records, and the curriculum. I prepared my classroom with help from family and friends blinded by what I wanted to see and not what I was seeing.
This school was the oldest, most dilapidated building Hamilton County had to offer. Wow. But, I couldn't see anything bad about it because I just wanted my own classroom and students. I decorated the room and it still looked shabby. It was part of an old auditorium and located all the way across the school from my grade level. I didn't even know I had a grade level until one of the students said, "I wish I was in Miss Williams' class because she's black like me." That comment prompted another student to say, "Are you light skinned or white?" Then another student said, "On Lesson Line where you record our homework, at the beginning Peyton Manning says something about stay in school and work hard. Are you kin to Peyton Manning? He's white too." The room had a broken air conditioner that hung on to the window just by a wing and a prayer. It was three flights of steps to get to my room which made fire drills a free for all regarding behavior and was across from a set of bathrooms that had a trickle for running water. Rats got into the snacks I provided for the students each night. That taught me that I had to bring things in plastic, sealed containers.
I can remember getting so frustrated because no matter what idea I had (putting pencil sharpeners at each group so they'd stop being obssessed with pencil sharpening, allowing them to earn their seat choices in the classroom to increase attention levels, mentoring kids with successful minority adults in the community, going to homes for conferences because of "house arrest" parents...), it was still my first year and I felt like nothing more than a lead student left to take names.
The road was taken, but almost took a different direction very quickly. I could not resort to what I saw others doing who were surviving the inner city teaching gig. I had made a pact of "refusals" to myself--things I wouldn't do because of my ethical committment to kids, not just the profession. I refused to yell at or belittle children. I felt that if I respected them and provided them with things they were interested in, gave them everything they needed to do what I was asking and was there for support than they shouldn't be a disruption. I did have to implement consequences, however. I had no educational training on children of poverty, drug environments, etc. I refused to use textbooks with kids who couldn't read. I wanted to use their curiosities of things that interested them to encourage a desire in them to learn the sight words and sounds they'd need to read about their interests. I refused to ignore that their basic needs weren't met. I wanted to make sure that even if they were eating my lunch for their breakfast, that they weren't not learning because they were hungry. I refused to worry about curriculum until I met their basic needs. My beginning salary paychecks went to furnishing my classroom with chapter books that we could use to do units, supplies that the children needed (okay, the monogrammed LLBean bookbags I gave some who didn't have bookbags was an over the top gesture) and anything else I thought was a barrier that could be removed with money.
One day during lunch, I decided this was not for me. I felt that I couldn't finish this rough journey because I couldn't fix everything within the 180 days I had. I told the Assistant Principal that I felt like quitting. I told him this wasn't at all like student teaching, it wasn't like school when I was a student, and it wasn't something I could do with the ease I was used to. He looked at me and said a few things to me that helped me know that I had to not fight this struggle to make things easier for me, but to fight the fight to make things easier for the students. He said, "This might not be the placement for you at this time in your career, but that doesn't mean you need to give up on education." He matched me up with a mentor teacher who said, "Take that bow out, lose the teacher clothes and let them know you are the boss of that room." Well, I decided that bossing kids wasn't what I wanted to do. I wanted to look at standards and students' interest and create work for them that they were excited about. I decided I wasn't in a school where that was the way things were done. So, at the end of that first year, I applied for and trained to teach at a magnet school for fine arts, where the administration felt agreed that that's where "people like me belonged." They further remarked that the magnet school was for, "Teachers who don't want to use textbooks, teachers who want to have socratic circles at the end of the day with students,............."Sounded like heaven to me!
Thirteen years later............I wonder what if I had not taken this road? Would I have a degree in education, but be....?.....
I was watching A&E's "Teach: Tony Danza" and something he said at the very beginning of the show made me think, "What about that road not taken?" I'd safely say that there are two types of people in the world when it comes to listening to teachers talk: 1) Those who would rather not, and 2) Those who actually have a fascination with education. The second group are the minority. So, if you are in the majority, this post will not interest you. Stop reading now. Honestly, I fall in the first group more than you'd think. :)
Each school year when the new year starts, I think several of the same thoughts. Now, how many years is this? I wonder what are my students from each year are up to now? Why does each year feel like the first year? How will this school year end? I also remember that first year.............
My first year was almost the last year. I couldn't think of a harder existence than that defining year. I couldn't have spent more time or money trying to get it figured out. I had an interview at an inner city school near Erlanger just before my wedding. I hadn't even walked across the stage to get my diploma yet. I got a call just before the we left for our honeymoon offering me the job. It was kindergarten. I told the principal I preferred 3rd grade. She hesistated and offered me 3rd grade. Obviously, she knew my long blonde curls, satin bow and sailor dress were better suited for kindergarten in the inner city. However, I was convinced my life would be over if I didn't teach 3rd grade.
Because I had attended UTC, the area didn't seem that rough to me. Boy, was I wrong! It was a very rough area of Chattanooga and I didn't find that out until I decided to offer pick up and drop off service to my parents who couldn't get to the school for conferences. Oh? There's a rule that you don't drive parents/students home without another school personnel in the car with you? How come, as a first year teacher, I didn't find out about rules until I broke one?
In addition to all the rules and norms I was clueless about, there was the race factor. For the first time ever, I was in the minority. It was so interesting. I didn't know that I was in the minority until I stood in front of my class on the first day of school. Before standing in front of my class, I spent hours cleaning and decorating the room. Little did I know, I should have spent hours studying the neighborhoods, the students' stories, the data in the perm records, and the curriculum. I prepared my classroom with help from family and friends blinded by what I wanted to see and not what I was seeing.
This school was the oldest, most dilapidated building Hamilton County had to offer. Wow. But, I couldn't see anything bad about it because I just wanted my own classroom and students. I decorated the room and it still looked shabby. It was part of an old auditorium and located all the way across the school from my grade level. I didn't even know I had a grade level until one of the students said, "I wish I was in Miss Williams' class because she's black like me." That comment prompted another student to say, "Are you light skinned or white?" Then another student said, "On Lesson Line where you record our homework, at the beginning Peyton Manning says something about stay in school and work hard. Are you kin to Peyton Manning? He's white too." The room had a broken air conditioner that hung on to the window just by a wing and a prayer. It was three flights of steps to get to my room which made fire drills a free for all regarding behavior and was across from a set of bathrooms that had a trickle for running water. Rats got into the snacks I provided for the students each night. That taught me that I had to bring things in plastic, sealed containers.
I can remember getting so frustrated because no matter what idea I had (putting pencil sharpeners at each group so they'd stop being obssessed with pencil sharpening, allowing them to earn their seat choices in the classroom to increase attention levels, mentoring kids with successful minority adults in the community, going to homes for conferences because of "house arrest" parents...), it was still my first year and I felt like nothing more than a lead student left to take names.
The road was taken, but almost took a different direction very quickly. I could not resort to what I saw others doing who were surviving the inner city teaching gig. I had made a pact of "refusals" to myself--things I wouldn't do because of my ethical committment to kids, not just the profession. I refused to yell at or belittle children. I felt that if I respected them and provided them with things they were interested in, gave them everything they needed to do what I was asking and was there for support than they shouldn't be a disruption. I did have to implement consequences, however. I had no educational training on children of poverty, drug environments, etc. I refused to use textbooks with kids who couldn't read. I wanted to use their curiosities of things that interested them to encourage a desire in them to learn the sight words and sounds they'd need to read about their interests. I refused to ignore that their basic needs weren't met. I wanted to make sure that even if they were eating my lunch for their breakfast, that they weren't not learning because they were hungry. I refused to worry about curriculum until I met their basic needs. My beginning salary paychecks went to furnishing my classroom with chapter books that we could use to do units, supplies that the children needed (okay, the monogrammed LLBean bookbags I gave some who didn't have bookbags was an over the top gesture) and anything else I thought was a barrier that could be removed with money.
One day during lunch, I decided this was not for me. I felt that I couldn't finish this rough journey because I couldn't fix everything within the 180 days I had. I told the Assistant Principal that I felt like quitting. I told him this wasn't at all like student teaching, it wasn't like school when I was a student, and it wasn't something I could do with the ease I was used to. He looked at me and said a few things to me that helped me know that I had to not fight this struggle to make things easier for me, but to fight the fight to make things easier for the students. He said, "This might not be the placement for you at this time in your career, but that doesn't mean you need to give up on education." He matched me up with a mentor teacher who said, "Take that bow out, lose the teacher clothes and let them know you are the boss of that room." Well, I decided that bossing kids wasn't what I wanted to do. I wanted to look at standards and students' interest and create work for them that they were excited about. I decided I wasn't in a school where that was the way things were done. So, at the end of that first year, I applied for and trained to teach at a magnet school for fine arts, where the administration felt agreed that that's where "people like me belonged." They further remarked that the magnet school was for, "Teachers who don't want to use textbooks, teachers who want to have socratic circles at the end of the day with students,............."Sounded like heaven to me!
Thirteen years later............I wonder what if I had not taken this road? Would I have a degree in education, but be....?.....
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
School Marries Baby
Two of my worlds overlapped in my thoughts because of my being at home with C right now. So, I'm going to share a thought I have.
Okay, here's what I've learned today: Babies are content sitting in poop. It's warm, cushiony and the smell doesn't bother them because it's their stinkiness.
It would drive an adult crazy. Why? Because we know better and can do something about it. That's kind of like being empowered. Babies don't feel empowerment because they don't have the tools to do something about the poop in which they've created and sit in, orrr lay in. They just stay in the poop and are content, until it probably starts to sting their hineys. I think that we as adults sometimes stink things up because we are comfortable sitting in poop, haven't found a voice to holler out for help and don't know any better.
Just a random thought that probably won't seem so profound to me in about 5 minutes. Babies are content sitting in poop, metaphorically--are you?
Okay, here's what I've learned today: Babies are content sitting in poop. It's warm, cushiony and the smell doesn't bother them because it's their stinkiness.
It would drive an adult crazy. Why? Because we know better and can do something about it. That's kind of like being empowered. Babies don't feel empowerment because they don't have the tools to do something about the poop in which they've created and sit in, orrr lay in. They just stay in the poop and are content, until it probably starts to sting their hineys. I think that we as adults sometimes stink things up because we are comfortable sitting in poop, haven't found a voice to holler out for help and don't know any better.
Just a random thought that probably won't seem so profound to me in about 5 minutes. Babies are content sitting in poop, metaphorically--are you?
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
She said, "He likes the ocean," and I think she was talking to me. I couldn't really tell though because all I heard were beeps, clinks and liquids releasing from tubes. Making sense of everything around me was another obstacle to me figuring out who she was talking to and about. Not to mention, who was she? When I picked my head up from the plastic incubator it was really hurting because I must've just layed my forehead against the edge which was slightly less comfortable than the hospital bed I'd been in for some time. I was in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit with my new baby boy and about nine other very sick babies, all of which seemed to go home well before mine. And that's who she (the nurse) was talking about-our baby. I looked up and saw a stuffed animal that played ocean sounds, and apparently, that what she was talking about. Pieces of the puzzle to this place were falling together rapidly, almost like when you press "finish" on a Solitaire game just to see the solution because you are tired of playing/thinking. So, into the stack goes the curiosities of where I am.
I had this strange stiffness that came over my swelling body around my 32nd week of pregnancy. These weird ailments came on so swiftly that I figured that it was just how this pregnancy was going to go, and I never thought I was "sick". I thought I just felt like crap. Heck, I got so used to feeling like crap, I didn't know what it was like to not feel like crap. I hadn't been sleeping for more than 30 minutes a night for a couple of weeks. My hands were numb. My left knee felt like it was being operated on in a third world country at all times. My vision---what exactly should 20/20 look like? Nothing tasted good, everyone sucked, and I was miserable. My face looked like---it_was_huge.
So, two weeks of being swollen and about 3 days of not being able to pee were pretty rotten. Finally, on Friday, July 9 I woke up to my husband telling me that he was going to work. I told him I really didn't feel well and that my right shoulder was hurting so bad that I couldn't talk without gasping. He gave me Libby's ladybug ice pack and left for work. I'd been so sick for so long, nothing seemed out of the ordinary to him either. His mom came to entertain Libby and the muralist worked on a mural in the nursery. I knew at about 9 am things weren't right. I called the doctor's office and he happened to be out of town. The receptionist put me on hold for what seemed like an enternity. Finally, I learned I needed to be checked (for the third time that week) in Labor and Delivery. Not checked to see if I was in labor because we all knew that wasn't the case at 34 weeks, but rather what story my blood pressure might be able to tell. I decided to drive myself because I was hurting in my shoulder, sleep deprived and flat out miserable.
Steven gets wind of me preparing to go to the hospital and comes home to get me before I could leave on my own. My bp was unreal when they checked it, but my mani/pedi was to die for--and by the looks of my bloodwork, I was headed that way.
Before I knew it, a doctor I hadn't met was checking me, nurses were doing all kinds of things to me and an anesthesiologist was praying with me. When the team of what looked like "Holy Crap, what do we have here" left the room, I looked at Steven who'd just returned from having stepped out with my phone for a bit. He looked blank. Soon, I saw various family members coming in quietly one by one and just staring at me. I thought that was freaky. I asked for my phone so that I could read or occupy myself while they quitely stared at me and just patted the sheet I was under. I was headed to an emergency c-section and thought I'd calm my nerves. However, what I saw on my Facebook status, that apparently had been updated by Steven was prayer requests for my liver and kidneys which were gearing up for a shutdown. I heard the nurses mention HELLP syndrome and my mom had mentioned it to me, but surely not...
I was super puzzled, but had to hand off my phone and be wheeled by a stool where S was told to sit to a room where people began introducing themselves and asking if it was alright if they cut my undergarmets off. I thought to myself, "Well, the nurse just did some handy architectural work down South, do you really need to ask if you can cut my bra off"? I heard a roar of laughter so that thought must have come out of my mouth rather than been to myself.
Once I was strapped to a table, a team of doctors ready for the premature baby were ready and came to the top of my head to introduce themselves and to tell me all kinds of junk I wouldn't remember. I was also told it would be wise to not get pregnant again and that a tubal would be appropriate during the surgery. I thought to myself, "So would lipo". I heard laughter once more and realized that I must have said that outloud, as well.
Steven came in. The anesthesiologist's cellphone rang several times during the surgery (and he answered it). I finally looked at him and asked him to tell me what was being done. He said, "They are putting you back together like Humpty Dumpty". I said, "I feel that". He said, "What"? I said, "I don't feel pain, but I feel what they are doing". He said, "It won't be much longer". Then the doctor who was doing the c-section said to the anesthesiologist, "Push from up top. The baby is transverse and wrapped in the cord. Push now. Push hard".
The anesthesiologist hung up his cellphone and shoved hard just below my chest. The baby came out. There was no crying. I didn't have my contacts in and couldn't see much. They whisked him away and began working to get him on a ventilator. The next thing I remember is waking up in a tiny dark room with a nurse, my sister and Steven on his laptop working. Everytime I looked at him, he just pushed a Morphine drip button and I fell back to sleep.
Finally, the next morning, I asked to see my phone and I saw that my Facebook status said something about someone being in ICU and bloodlevels not being right or something. I asked, "Who's in ICU"? My sister and Steven simultaneously said, "You are". I said, "What? This is ICU? I'm in ICU? Why?" The nurse said, "You are very sick. Very sick".
I remember people coming by to see me and finally getting moved to a regular room late Saturday night. I wasn't aware I could take anything to help me sleep or be in less pain, so I didn't ask for anything, but I thought I was never going to be out of pain. Walking to the bathroom, though I was just thankful I could pee, hurt so bad. Laying hurt. Laughing hurt. Talking hurt. I was hurting. Steven was working on his laptop because some deadline was upon him. On the way to that regular post partrum room, I was wheeled in to see the baby. I was wheeled past the "Normal Nursery" as it was referred to and to the "Special Care Nursery". This is where you don't hold your baby, he is fed and monitored by tubes. And she said, "He likes the ocean........."
I had this strange stiffness that came over my swelling body around my 32nd week of pregnancy. These weird ailments came on so swiftly that I figured that it was just how this pregnancy was going to go, and I never thought I was "sick". I thought I just felt like crap. Heck, I got so used to feeling like crap, I didn't know what it was like to not feel like crap. I hadn't been sleeping for more than 30 minutes a night for a couple of weeks. My hands were numb. My left knee felt like it was being operated on in a third world country at all times. My vision---what exactly should 20/20 look like? Nothing tasted good, everyone sucked, and I was miserable. My face looked like---it_was_huge.
So, two weeks of being swollen and about 3 days of not being able to pee were pretty rotten. Finally, on Friday, July 9 I woke up to my husband telling me that he was going to work. I told him I really didn't feel well and that my right shoulder was hurting so bad that I couldn't talk without gasping. He gave me Libby's ladybug ice pack and left for work. I'd been so sick for so long, nothing seemed out of the ordinary to him either. His mom came to entertain Libby and the muralist worked on a mural in the nursery. I knew at about 9 am things weren't right. I called the doctor's office and he happened to be out of town. The receptionist put me on hold for what seemed like an enternity. Finally, I learned I needed to be checked (for the third time that week) in Labor and Delivery. Not checked to see if I was in labor because we all knew that wasn't the case at 34 weeks, but rather what story my blood pressure might be able to tell. I decided to drive myself because I was hurting in my shoulder, sleep deprived and flat out miserable.
Steven gets wind of me preparing to go to the hospital and comes home to get me before I could leave on my own. My bp was unreal when they checked it, but my mani/pedi was to die for--and by the looks of my bloodwork, I was headed that way.
Before I knew it, a doctor I hadn't met was checking me, nurses were doing all kinds of things to me and an anesthesiologist was praying with me. When the team of what looked like "Holy Crap, what do we have here" left the room, I looked at Steven who'd just returned from having stepped out with my phone for a bit. He looked blank. Soon, I saw various family members coming in quietly one by one and just staring at me. I thought that was freaky. I asked for my phone so that I could read or occupy myself while they quitely stared at me and just patted the sheet I was under. I was headed to an emergency c-section and thought I'd calm my nerves. However, what I saw on my Facebook status, that apparently had been updated by Steven was prayer requests for my liver and kidneys which were gearing up for a shutdown. I heard the nurses mention HELLP syndrome and my mom had mentioned it to me, but surely not...
I was super puzzled, but had to hand off my phone and be wheeled by a stool where S was told to sit to a room where people began introducing themselves and asking if it was alright if they cut my undergarmets off. I thought to myself, "Well, the nurse just did some handy architectural work down South, do you really need to ask if you can cut my bra off"? I heard a roar of laughter so that thought must have come out of my mouth rather than been to myself.
Once I was strapped to a table, a team of doctors ready for the premature baby were ready and came to the top of my head to introduce themselves and to tell me all kinds of junk I wouldn't remember. I was also told it would be wise to not get pregnant again and that a tubal would be appropriate during the surgery. I thought to myself, "So would lipo". I heard laughter once more and realized that I must have said that outloud, as well.
Steven came in. The anesthesiologist's cellphone rang several times during the surgery (and he answered it). I finally looked at him and asked him to tell me what was being done. He said, "They are putting you back together like Humpty Dumpty". I said, "I feel that". He said, "What"? I said, "I don't feel pain, but I feel what they are doing". He said, "It won't be much longer". Then the doctor who was doing the c-section said to the anesthesiologist, "Push from up top. The baby is transverse and wrapped in the cord. Push now. Push hard".
The anesthesiologist hung up his cellphone and shoved hard just below my chest. The baby came out. There was no crying. I didn't have my contacts in and couldn't see much. They whisked him away and began working to get him on a ventilator. The next thing I remember is waking up in a tiny dark room with a nurse, my sister and Steven on his laptop working. Everytime I looked at him, he just pushed a Morphine drip button and I fell back to sleep.
Finally, the next morning, I asked to see my phone and I saw that my Facebook status said something about someone being in ICU and bloodlevels not being right or something. I asked, "Who's in ICU"? My sister and Steven simultaneously said, "You are". I said, "What? This is ICU? I'm in ICU? Why?" The nurse said, "You are very sick. Very sick".
I remember people coming by to see me and finally getting moved to a regular room late Saturday night. I wasn't aware I could take anything to help me sleep or be in less pain, so I didn't ask for anything, but I thought I was never going to be out of pain. Walking to the bathroom, though I was just thankful I could pee, hurt so bad. Laying hurt. Laughing hurt. Talking hurt. I was hurting. Steven was working on his laptop because some deadline was upon him. On the way to that regular post partrum room, I was wheeled in to see the baby. I was wheeled past the "Normal Nursery" as it was referred to and to the "Special Care Nursery". This is where you don't hold your baby, he is fed and monitored by tubes. And she said, "He likes the ocean........."
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Jesus, listen.
Jesus, listen. You probably aren't a follower of my blog, but just in case, I thought I'd write you an entry. Let me start with catching you up right quick since you may have been busy beckoning on the behalf of POW's, Haitian Crisis, BP Oil Spill, etc.
As you already know, we have a baby coming in about 10 weeks. I know I didn't say "thanks" at first, I get a little behind on thank you notes when I have questions, but "thanks".
It would be twelve weeks away, the delivery that is, but with the anxiety issues you and God gifted me with, I have to have a planned inducement to manage my freakingoutness. Let me get right to the point so that you can go back to helping out world catastrophes and so forth.
So, what kind of joke is it you and God are doing by not letting me be able to have an ultrasound telling me if it is a girl or boy? I'm just really curious. It's freaking me out not being able to get things done. I'm not the unisex type. (You probably knew that because you're Jesus, and all.) I need to know if I'm having another girl so I can get the hot pink and toile fired up in that room.
I'd love to be able to post a picture of the nursery, but......who wants to see a 1/3 guest room, 1/3 nursery storage, 1/3 Steven's closet combo?
I bet if you audibly answered me right now, you say:
"It looks like you have a closet to clean up in your master bedroom, so Steven (who I highly favor), can move his clothes back in from the guest/nursery room. Why don't you work on that?" And, Jesus, since this post is just mainly about my concerns with the sex of the baby (feels funny to say the s word in a blog to you, but how else do you skip around that in this case) and not why Steven always seems highly favored. I would like to ask why things are always so much easier for him, one of these days--be thinking on that, okay, Jesus? Is it because his parents churched him up more than mine did? Is it because he doesn't have generational curses? Is it....oh, that's another time, but Jesus, you know I wonder stuff. Okay, anyway...
Well, Jesus. That leads me to my next cyclical level of curiosities--My swelling self! Why do I have to swell? It's not like I have room for this mess. I feel like a one legged man in a butt kickin' contest trying to get stuff done because the swelling makes me clumsy. PLUS, my nostrils are swollen on the inside and hearing myself breath is freaking me out, too. I sound like a vaporizer.
My second, or twentieth, question is in response to what you are probably thinking is the answer to my swelling. This is you Jesus---->"Drink more water." Well, I'm good with commands and all, Jesus, (okay, honestly, I'm stil struggling with the "Fear Not" command and when ocean BP spill is cleaned up, if you can look into my fear issues, that'd be cool with me) but can I just ask on the way--why the heck does water not taste like KoolAid, Sweet Tea or Sprite? Why can the stuff that's bad for you taste bad and the stuff that's good for you taste good?
Jesus. Jesus? Where'd you go? My questions are really plaguing you, I guess. You probably rushed right over to God to let him in on the few things like my ultrasound, my swelling and water taste that He forgot when He was doing the seven day creation thing. Thanks, Jesus. I'll text ya later. You didn't tell me bye, but that's cool. I talk so fast that I know you got the gyst.
As you already know, we have a baby coming in about 10 weeks. I know I didn't say "thanks" at first, I get a little behind on thank you notes when I have questions, but "thanks".
It would be twelve weeks away, the delivery that is, but with the anxiety issues you and God gifted me with, I have to have a planned inducement to manage my freakingoutness. Let me get right to the point so that you can go back to helping out world catastrophes and so forth.
So, what kind of joke is it you and God are doing by not letting me be able to have an ultrasound telling me if it is a girl or boy? I'm just really curious. It's freaking me out not being able to get things done. I'm not the unisex type. (You probably knew that because you're Jesus, and all.) I need to know if I'm having another girl so I can get the hot pink and toile fired up in that room.
I'd love to be able to post a picture of the nursery, but......who wants to see a 1/3 guest room, 1/3 nursery storage, 1/3 Steven's closet combo?
I bet if you audibly answered me right now, you say:
"It looks like you have a closet to clean up in your master bedroom, so Steven (who I highly favor), can move his clothes back in from the guest/nursery room. Why don't you work on that?" And, Jesus, since this post is just mainly about my concerns with the sex of the baby (feels funny to say the s word in a blog to you, but how else do you skip around that in this case) and not why Steven always seems highly favored. I would like to ask why things are always so much easier for him, one of these days--be thinking on that, okay, Jesus? Is it because his parents churched him up more than mine did? Is it because he doesn't have generational curses? Is it....oh, that's another time, but Jesus, you know I wonder stuff. Okay, anyway...
Well, Jesus. That leads me to my next cyclical level of curiosities--My swelling self! Why do I have to swell? It's not like I have room for this mess. I feel like a one legged man in a butt kickin' contest trying to get stuff done because the swelling makes me clumsy. PLUS, my nostrils are swollen on the inside and hearing myself breath is freaking me out, too. I sound like a vaporizer.
My second, or twentieth, question is in response to what you are probably thinking is the answer to my swelling. This is you Jesus---->"Drink more water." Well, I'm good with commands and all, Jesus, (okay, honestly, I'm stil struggling with the "Fear Not" command and when ocean BP spill is cleaned up, if you can look into my fear issues, that'd be cool with me) but can I just ask on the way--why the heck does water not taste like KoolAid, Sweet Tea or Sprite? Why can the stuff that's bad for you taste bad and the stuff that's good for you taste good?
Jesus. Jesus? Where'd you go? My questions are really plaguing you, I guess. You probably rushed right over to God to let him in on the few things like my ultrasound, my swelling and water taste that He forgot when He was doing the seven day creation thing. Thanks, Jesus. I'll text ya later. You didn't tell me bye, but that's cool. I talk so fast that I know you got the gyst.
Friday, April 9, 2010
The Soundtrack Of Your Life
When I watch Dateline NBC, I always let my mind wonder. The guy who narrates, Keith Morrison, always has these zinger lines that he says in a way that gives me the hibby-jibbies. Recently, he started like this: "You know back in the 80's when you'd make a mixed tape for a friend as a special gift....." He lingered on every two words so that all you could do was put yourself in that situation.
Well, that got me to thinking..........If you had to make a soundtrack of your life, do you know what your songs would be? There are so many components that would come into play, right?
The first being, significance. The songs would have to have significant meaning to your life's events. It might not even be an event you'd want to commemorate with a song, but it happened and it's a part of you.
The second component would have to be sequence. The songs would need to be in some order to make the story complete. Each chapter of your life makes a story. Is your story one that you would be able to put on ITunes for all to download? Is it one you'd rather put in a drawer to never hear again.
Are parts of it those that should be earmarked as, "Subscribers Only". Would you have a soundtrack that you give to others, but one that you'd have that was REALLY your soundtrack?
I think I could sit down with Billboard's Top Hits for each year and identify pretty well with certain songs and pretty accurately be able to match them to events--most small, insignificant events, but those where you were you and you were there. <---That sentence I just wrote, a teacher would have slammed me for in school---WHICH IS WHY I NEVER WROTE IN SCHOOL. :)
What I mean by that is you may have heard a song that just reminds you of a ride down a certain road when the song came on the radio. That's not significant, riding down the road, but what is significant (<--and, I'd have just gotten slammed for overusing that word) is that you were you and you were there. If that still doesn't make sense to you, go back to teaching college and begin a career where you shut writers down. I'm just sayin'.
Soooo, back on track (minus 10 points for being off topic)--could you list out your soundtrack? How would it differ from what someone else would have you upload to ITunes? I think I'll work on what my soundtrack would be and I'll post it when I get it together. (minus 20 points for being late, Phillips!)
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