Parts I and II of this series available by scrolling down or clicking here and here.
The maternity floor was on the third floor of the very modern hospital. It was a large room, but oddly shaped, long and narrow.
Our in-laws were already there, of course, at the far end of the room. There was a huge flatscreen TV on the wall showing the NBA playoff game between the Indiana Pacers and the Atlanta Hawks, but neither of them were really watching.
They were watching us. They didn't look entirely pleased. It could have been the stress of the moment, of course.
But there's no getting away from the fact that this is their grandchild. A child in which they feel -- understandably! -- that they have a proprietary interest. Bought and paid for.
IVF treatments are not cheap, and Older Daughter has endured so many. So many false starts. So many failed attempts. So many, many tears.
But this night -- this birth -- could not have been possible without the funds so generously provided by my in-laws. Older Daughter and Hank laid out an awful lot of money themselves, but Hank's parents paid a boatload of money, too. Long Suffering Spouse and I could not have helped. I couldn't afford the cost of gasoline for the trip to Indianapolis.
I understood their point of view. I'd like to think I might not have thought that way, were I in their shoes, but I'm only human. We all are.
I resolved to be friendly. I sat down by them and began chatting.
Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter took up posts a bit further away.
It was the Baby-Who-I-Still-Have-To-Name who bridged the gap. She saw the long room as a runway. And she ran up and back that runway multiple times, grabbing my arm and shrieking in her loudest, shrillest, happiest voice. I'd turn and growl at her and she'd flee in mock terror, only to repeat the process immediately. The in-laws watched carefully. "The kid hates me," I explained, while my granddaughter readied another charge.
"Obviously," said Hank's father, with a four-syllable delivery that would have done Professor Snape proud.
This was further evidence, to them, if any were really needed, that we already had our grandchild. This one -- the one being born down the hall somewhere -- was theirs. So why we were intruding on their party?
Granddaughter #1 charged me a few more times, shrieking every time, ignoring our suggestions that perhaps she might cultivate an 'inside' voice. Well, the kid had been stuck in a car seat for over three hours. Finally, on one return trip, her mother detected a whiff of something that suggested that all this running around might have had another purpose than merely to alienate the in-laws. She scooped up her child and, making apologies, disappeared in search of a bathroom.
The in-laws stared at me. "I guess I bring out the best in her," I shrugged, feigning momentary interest in the Pacers-Hawks game.
More careful small-talk ensued.
Granddaughter #1 had returned by this time and, at their far end of the long room, Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter were trying to interest her in various toys and books. She was still noisy.
Finally, Hank's mother had had enough. She stood up.
"I'm going to see what's going on."
"Good luck," I offered.
This particular hospital had a strict no-visitors policy for the first two hours after childbirth -- the idea being to give Mom a breather, after her ordeal, and a moment or two for the new family to introduce themselves to each other -- and Older Daughter told us that this rule would be strictly enforced.
Why were we even at the hospital then? Truth to tell, we had nowhere else to go. Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter had arranged to stay at Older Daughter's house even before the blessed event began unfolding -- so we had to wait where we were, if only for the purpose of receiving keys.
I didn't much care one way or the other. I could spar with the in-laws or sleep in my chair or pretend to watch an NBA game or, if all else failed, look solemnly at my phone. I could read my Twitter feed or play Solitaire. I can hang around doing nothing with the best of them.
Granddaughter #1 would become increasingly cranky, of course. It was getting to be her bedtime, and she'd just accomplished something besides, and she had run around like a crazy person for some time. No, her fuse was lit. And Long Suffering Spouse was distinctly uncomfortable; she knew the in-laws weren't thrilled to see us, and she also understood why. Younger Daughter wasn't as uncomfortable; she had a basic understanding that the present situation was a tad awkward, but she was too focused on her ticking time-bomb toddler to worry much about her sister's in-laws.
Anyway, at that point, we had no idea whether Granddaughter #2 had even been born, so we had no idea where the two-hour clock might have stood. But neither did the in-laws.
This did not discourage Hank's mother. "I'm a pediatric nurse," she said, and she is, "so I'll play the nurse card. And, if that doesn't work, I'll play the cancer card." She said it lightly, as a joke, as she marched toward the labor and delivery area. She has suffered from breast cancer, diagnosed last year, and while there was some initial concern about what she had and how serious it was, the story now seems to be that she's responded well to treatment -- surgery and chemo and radiation -- and, indeed, she even scheduled her treatment regimen so that it would be concluded before the baby was born. She didn't want to give anyone any excuse to deny or limit access to her grandchild.
I thought I saw Hank's father wince a little at the cancer 'joke." Speaking as someone who's had several feet of innards removed, I am very careful about how I 'joke' about such things. Nothing may be always and everywhere off-limits (as you may note per the linked posts in the preceding sentence). But this didn't seem much like the time or place to bring up the subject. In my opinion.
I don't know what was said, ultimately, or what cards were played. But apparently whatever cards that Hank's mother did play were trumped by the hospital staff. She returned unenlightened. I pretended to really concentrate on the Pacers-Hawks game. Long Suffering Spouse really concentrated on holding Granddaughter #1's attention on a book.
Time passed.
Eventually -- and I do mean to imply an additional goodly wait here -- Hank showed up. Happy. A bounce in his step. Our new grandchild had apparently arrived about the time we pulled into the hospital parking lot. She had 10 fingers and 10 toes and everything.
Hank's father produced a bottle and some shot glasses. One was pressed into my hand. Well, of course, I would not refuse!
But this is the 21st Century. Celebration can't get in the way of notification: All present, Granddaughter #1 excepted, produced cellphones and began texting various and sundry persons.
Then Hank dropped the bombshell. Older Daughter had asked to see Long Suffering Spouse first.
This could not have played well with the in-laws. But, if Hank's mother may have crumpled a bit, Hank's father more than covered for her. I'd provide more detail here, but -- once Hank made his announcement -- I suddenly realized that I'd been just a wee bit nervous, too. I may have surrendered to my emotions. I surely exhaled.
Long Suffering Spouse did not dally. She told me later that she refused Older Daughter's offer to hold the child, realizing that this would go down very badly with the in-laws. Indeed, every moment that she remained in there alone counted against us. So she encouraged Older Daughter to let the floodgates open, promising we would depart promptly and let her get some rest. (Older Daughter, being Older Daughter, didn't want to rest. She wanted everyone to stay -- but that just wasn't smart.)
The nurse had our new grandchild under the french fry warmer when we came in. I'm sure there's a technical name for that lamp, but that's what it reminds me of, and everyone probably understands what I'm talking about, right? She held the child up for inspection and (inevitably) photographs.
Tiny.
That was my first impression.
Red.
That was my second impression. But, some part of me remembered, they were all pretty red at first.
"How much did she weigh again?" I asked Older Daughter. "Seven pounds, six ounces," she said. "She's too small!" I protested. "Put her back until she's done." (Older Daughter was our smallest, at 8 lbs., 4 oz.) "Da-ad!" Older Daughter and her sister both yelled. Long Suffering Spouse just rolled her eyes (for better or for worse she may have muttered to herself).
Actually, although she was supposedly two weeks early, her head did not loll and her eyes were open. In my completely un-expert opinion, the child was clearly full-term.
I don't understand how a baby can be early or late when the actual moment of conception can be calculated -- heck, it was charted! -- but maybe that just means we don't know as much about how these things really work as we like to pretend.
We made our excuses to clear out of the hospital room as quickly as possible. Granddaughter #1 was a big help because she clearly had no idea what to make of this tiny red thing and she began to tell us so in no uncertain terms.
"How long are you staying?" Hank's mother asked, but she really meant when are you leaving?
Older Daughter will have her hands full with that one.
But, for now, all is good. It was a very happy Mother's Day in Indianapolis Sunday. I don't care whose grandchild she is; I'm just happy Older Daughter was able to have a baby.
(I know that's very un-Curmudgeonly of me. Tough. I'll try and regain my Curmudgeon-cred in future posts.)
Showing posts with label IVF. Show all posts
Showing posts with label IVF. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Curmudgeon becomes a grandfather again -- Part II
For Part I, scroll down the page or click here.
I raced home from the office expecting to see my wife, Younger Daughter, and the Baby-Who'd-Better-Get-A-Name-Soon sitting on the front steps glaring at me. But they weren't through packing yet: There were decisions to be made about what food to bring and what to leave behind. My consent was required (merely as a courtesy, you understand) for the clothes that Long Suffering Spouse had picked out for me. And which electronic devices would be taken, and where were the chargers?
At some point, I was told to take Granddaughter #1 into the backyard and jolly her up whilst her mother and grandmother finished putting things together. One of us -- either me or the toddler -- was apparently in the way. (Yes, I suppose it was me, too.)
Anyway, it was a glorious day in Chicago last Tuesday, the kind of day when you'd want to be outdoors anyway, and #1 Granddaughter was very pleased at the opportunity to play on the jungle gym (I spotted her down the slide) and she shrieked with pleasure when she sat with me on the swing. Before that, though, I checked my messages. My phones have an uncanny way of ringing five minutes after I leave the office. Sure enough, I had a message from one of the attorneys (an ex-partner, actually) who was trying to engage me in a new matter that would be up in court tomorrow. I'd already told him that would be impossible, and he'd already agreed that it should be possible to get a continuance in the circumstances. Now, though, he wanted to talk to me about the papers I'd need to review for court. I returned the call from the backyard, as the planes flew continuously overhead on their way to O'Hare. The new runway configuration has somehow resulted in increased traffic over the Curmudgeon Manse. Granddaughter #1, knowing no better, does not mind; in fact, she waves 'bye-bye' to the planes as they pass. She is getting very adept at 'bye-bye.'
"There's too much to scan," my ex-partner told me, reversing an earlier proposal to email me the materials I needed to review. "We could deliver them to your office, but you're already home?" he asked. And leaving momentarily, I lied, not knowing how far preparations had yet advanced. In the end, it was decided to overnight the materials to my house. That way, when I got back into town I would have them immediately. That struck me as sensible. I hung up and went to play on the swings.
It turns out that swinging on the swingset isn't quite as easy as it looks when you have to hold a toddler in place. I tired quickly. Granddaughter the First was made of sterner stuff; she was prepared to keep going for a much longer time.
Nevertheless, I told her, we have to see if it's time to go bye-bye. I got her car seat out of the little car and hooked it up to the van. This was difficult to do while holding onto the Baby-to-Be-Named-Soon, so I had to trust her not to rush into the street when I put her down on the ground. Fortunately, her mother did not catch me while I was doing this.
Then, having hooked everything together as best I could, I installed the child in the car seat and went inside to see if I could carry any bags to the car. Indeed I could, I was told -- and back and forth I trudged. I'd left my briefcase in the van anyway (just in case I was going to find time to get some work done) but there was plenty else to carry.
Granddaughter #1 was happy to see me galumphing to and fro. It doesn't matter the age or the relationship, the female of the species likes it when the male is constructively engaged.
Eventually Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter came out to inspect my handiwork. Long Suffering Spouse rearranged everything in the trunk while Younger Daughter eyed the car seat skeptically. "You put this in?" she asked. "I did," I said, and not without a little pride. "Hmmmm," she said, and she tugged here and pulled there before pronouncing the results inadequate. She fixed it. I pretended not to mind.
Finally, though, we were ready to hit the road. It was too late now to go back through the City (rush hour in Chicago, especially on the inbound Kennedy, starts by 3:00 and it was nearly 3:30). Actually, we'd be going with traffic on the Tollway route as well, and we'd be tied up there, too, unless we got going immediately.
Long Suffering Spouse got a text from Older Daughter just as we were pulling out of the driveway. They broke the bag but nothing's happening, the text read. It was adorned with a frowny-face as well. You have to wait awhile, Long Suffering Spouse texted back.
So would we, as it turned out.
There were no more texts from Older Daughter, even after Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter fired off a couple of inquiries. Involuntary radio silence descended on our expedition as we worked our way south and east.
There is a wind farm now along I-65, about halfway between the beginning of the highway and Indianapolis. For the anxious adults, the rows of giant, slowly rotating windmills, looking more like giant table fans than anything else, provided confirmation of our journey's progress. For #1 Granddaughter, the windmills provide a source of wonder and entertainment. She pointed and commented and gibbered. I've no doubt that she was expressing her opinions on alternate energy sources, but, at roughly 18 months, her diction is not yet precise.
By the time we made Lafayette, the continuing telephone silence was becoming worrisome. Speculation had been exhausted. Maybe she's already had the baby -- maybe she's having a problem? -- maybe she'll have to be C-sectioned, too! (Younger Daughter had a C-section, and she's a bit sensitive about it still, as if she somehow did something wrong. The vigorous, healthy toddler in the car seat next to her should have satisfied her on this point, but there you have it.)
It was determined that extraordinary measures would have to be taken. "I will text Hank," Younger Daughter announced, and Long Suffering Spouse, who had until now opposed such a radical step, agreed that it was time.
I did not participate in this discussion about whether to text, or not to text. We didn't have texting when my kids were born. I can well imagine my response if my phone had beeped in the middle of events, however. I am pretty sure the phone would not have survived. I can't say whether I would have crushed it underfoot or dashed it against the wall, but I am absolutely certain that I would not have simply responded to a text.
Hank responded. His initial message -- that things were fine -- was a bit terse and incomplete for Long Suffering Spouse's and Younger Daughter's taste, but they were somewhat relieved.
And there were further communications from inside the labor room. I can't recall the exact sequence now -- only a week afterward -- but, at one point, he said that Older Daughter was 'taking a break' from pushing.
Long Suffering Spouse was incredulous. "Taking a break? Taking a break?" But all her labors were quick and extraordinarily intense. In her experience, pushing had not been something that could be interrupted, much less suspended.
The other datum which had been communicated by Hank was the name of the hospital where Older Daughter was laboring and more importantly (since there are apparently about six hospitals in Indianapolis with that same name) which of these was the correct one to aim for.
We would have to rely on GPS to find the place.
I hate GPS.
It is unreliable. Certainly it is insufficient as the sole means of providing directions: How many news stories have you read over the years of people turning off highways and into ditches or onto railroad tracks (and not at a crossing) because they slavishly complied with the dictates of their GPS? I really started to hate GPS, though, when we traveled as a family to Oldest Son's wedding in San Antonio, Texas, a place where I'd never been. I'd put some time into reviewing maps and printing out directions beforehand; my children all pulled out their smart phones (I was years away from getting one myself) and solemnly assured each other, and me, and Long Suffering Spouse, and my increasingly fearful mother-in-law, that I had led them to the wrong hotel. In the wee small hours of the morning. After a delayed, and cramped, flight. And they were wrong. I was right.
Just last summer I had to produce a witness for a deposition in the western suburbs. I met him at the Kane County Courthouse. We adjourned to the Starbucks across the street to prepare him for his testimony. We then were to drive our own cars to the other lawyer's office which was located, literally, in the middle of nowhere. I called for directions. My witness -- one of those 20-somethings that lives on his mobile phone -- used GPS. I was on time. He was a half hour late -- GPS had gotten him hopelessly lost -- and he never would have made it had he not called me for directions.
So I wasn't wild about relying on GPS. "Well," I growled to Younger Daughter, "you relay the directions. I don't want to hear the stupid phone voice."
"That way it will be my fault," Younger Daughter said. She didn't ask. She didn't have to ask.
"Right," I confirmed.
Do you have traffic circles, sometimes called roundabouts, where you live? We have one in the Chicago area not too far from us. We avoid it like Chernobyl. It scares me to death. On the couple of occasions that I have been forced, for one reason or another, to venture through it, traffic seems to be coming from every direction at once, and randomly, and unpredictably besides.
But apparently the power-that-be in the outlying areas of Indianapolis are greatly enamored of traffic circles. At least they have installed them approximately every two blocks on the road that we were forced to take to the hospital.
We were forced to take this literally circuitous route because the main highway was closed due to construction. There was no surprise here. Wherever I want to go, no matter when, no matter how, I will encounter serious construction.
"At least it's still light out," Long Suffering Spouse said as I careened through still another traffic circle. "I'd hate to try this in the dark," she added.
"Yes," I managed. I was the picture of concentration, focused entirely on the swerving traffic around me. Still I heard Younger Daughter add, "Just two more of these to go and we're there."
And, for a wonder, the GPS was right.
Darkness was descending on Indianapolis as we parked in the hospital lot. So much for encountering traffic circles in daylight, I thought, but did not say. We'd not heard anything from inside the hospital for awhile (our last instruction was to come to the third floor waiting room). I scanned the darkening skies anxiously. I didn't see any storks.
Yes, I'm stretching this into three parts, I guess. Next: Waiting with the unhappy in-laws.
I raced home from the office expecting to see my wife, Younger Daughter, and the Baby-Who'd-Better-Get-A-Name-Soon sitting on the front steps glaring at me. But they weren't through packing yet: There were decisions to be made about what food to bring and what to leave behind. My consent was required (merely as a courtesy, you understand) for the clothes that Long Suffering Spouse had picked out for me. And which electronic devices would be taken, and where were the chargers?
At some point, I was told to take Granddaughter #1 into the backyard and jolly her up whilst her mother and grandmother finished putting things together. One of us -- either me or the toddler -- was apparently in the way. (Yes, I suppose it was me, too.)
Anyway, it was a glorious day in Chicago last Tuesday, the kind of day when you'd want to be outdoors anyway, and #1 Granddaughter was very pleased at the opportunity to play on the jungle gym (I spotted her down the slide) and she shrieked with pleasure when she sat with me on the swing. Before that, though, I checked my messages. My phones have an uncanny way of ringing five minutes after I leave the office. Sure enough, I had a message from one of the attorneys (an ex-partner, actually) who was trying to engage me in a new matter that would be up in court tomorrow. I'd already told him that would be impossible, and he'd already agreed that it should be possible to get a continuance in the circumstances. Now, though, he wanted to talk to me about the papers I'd need to review for court. I returned the call from the backyard, as the planes flew continuously overhead on their way to O'Hare. The new runway configuration has somehow resulted in increased traffic over the Curmudgeon Manse. Granddaughter #1, knowing no better, does not mind; in fact, she waves 'bye-bye' to the planes as they pass. She is getting very adept at 'bye-bye.'
"There's too much to scan," my ex-partner told me, reversing an earlier proposal to email me the materials I needed to review. "We could deliver them to your office, but you're already home?" he asked. And leaving momentarily, I lied, not knowing how far preparations had yet advanced. In the end, it was decided to overnight the materials to my house. That way, when I got back into town I would have them immediately. That struck me as sensible. I hung up and went to play on the swings.
It turns out that swinging on the swingset isn't quite as easy as it looks when you have to hold a toddler in place. I tired quickly. Granddaughter the First was made of sterner stuff; she was prepared to keep going for a much longer time.
Nevertheless, I told her, we have to see if it's time to go bye-bye. I got her car seat out of the little car and hooked it up to the van. This was difficult to do while holding onto the Baby-to-Be-Named-Soon, so I had to trust her not to rush into the street when I put her down on the ground. Fortunately, her mother did not catch me while I was doing this.
Then, having hooked everything together as best I could, I installed the child in the car seat and went inside to see if I could carry any bags to the car. Indeed I could, I was told -- and back and forth I trudged. I'd left my briefcase in the van anyway (just in case I was going to find time to get some work done) but there was plenty else to carry.
Granddaughter #1 was happy to see me galumphing to and fro. It doesn't matter the age or the relationship, the female of the species likes it when the male is constructively engaged.
Eventually Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter came out to inspect my handiwork. Long Suffering Spouse rearranged everything in the trunk while Younger Daughter eyed the car seat skeptically. "You put this in?" she asked. "I did," I said, and not without a little pride. "Hmmmm," she said, and she tugged here and pulled there before pronouncing the results inadequate. She fixed it. I pretended not to mind.
Finally, though, we were ready to hit the road. It was too late now to go back through the City (rush hour in Chicago, especially on the inbound Kennedy, starts by 3:00 and it was nearly 3:30). Actually, we'd be going with traffic on the Tollway route as well, and we'd be tied up there, too, unless we got going immediately.
Long Suffering Spouse got a text from Older Daughter just as we were pulling out of the driveway. They broke the bag but nothing's happening, the text read. It was adorned with a frowny-face as well. You have to wait awhile, Long Suffering Spouse texted back.
So would we, as it turned out.
There were no more texts from Older Daughter, even after Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter fired off a couple of inquiries. Involuntary radio silence descended on our expedition as we worked our way south and east.
There is a wind farm now along I-65, about halfway between the beginning of the highway and Indianapolis. For the anxious adults, the rows of giant, slowly rotating windmills, looking more like giant table fans than anything else, provided confirmation of our journey's progress. For #1 Granddaughter, the windmills provide a source of wonder and entertainment. She pointed and commented and gibbered. I've no doubt that she was expressing her opinions on alternate energy sources, but, at roughly 18 months, her diction is not yet precise.
By the time we made Lafayette, the continuing telephone silence was becoming worrisome. Speculation had been exhausted. Maybe she's already had the baby -- maybe she's having a problem? -- maybe she'll have to be C-sectioned, too! (Younger Daughter had a C-section, and she's a bit sensitive about it still, as if she somehow did something wrong. The vigorous, healthy toddler in the car seat next to her should have satisfied her on this point, but there you have it.)
It was determined that extraordinary measures would have to be taken. "I will text Hank," Younger Daughter announced, and Long Suffering Spouse, who had until now opposed such a radical step, agreed that it was time.
I did not participate in this discussion about whether to text, or not to text. We didn't have texting when my kids were born. I can well imagine my response if my phone had beeped in the middle of events, however. I am pretty sure the phone would not have survived. I can't say whether I would have crushed it underfoot or dashed it against the wall, but I am absolutely certain that I would not have simply responded to a text.
Hank responded. His initial message -- that things were fine -- was a bit terse and incomplete for Long Suffering Spouse's and Younger Daughter's taste, but they were somewhat relieved.
And there were further communications from inside the labor room. I can't recall the exact sequence now -- only a week afterward -- but, at one point, he said that Older Daughter was 'taking a break' from pushing.
Long Suffering Spouse was incredulous. "Taking a break? Taking a break?" But all her labors were quick and extraordinarily intense. In her experience, pushing had not been something that could be interrupted, much less suspended.
The other datum which had been communicated by Hank was the name of the hospital where Older Daughter was laboring and more importantly (since there are apparently about six hospitals in Indianapolis with that same name) which of these was the correct one to aim for.
We would have to rely on GPS to find the place.
I hate GPS.
It is unreliable. Certainly it is insufficient as the sole means of providing directions: How many news stories have you read over the years of people turning off highways and into ditches or onto railroad tracks (and not at a crossing) because they slavishly complied with the dictates of their GPS? I really started to hate GPS, though, when we traveled as a family to Oldest Son's wedding in San Antonio, Texas, a place where I'd never been. I'd put some time into reviewing maps and printing out directions beforehand; my children all pulled out their smart phones (I was years away from getting one myself) and solemnly assured each other, and me, and Long Suffering Spouse, and my increasingly fearful mother-in-law, that I had led them to the wrong hotel. In the wee small hours of the morning. After a delayed, and cramped, flight. And they were wrong. I was right.
Just last summer I had to produce a witness for a deposition in the western suburbs. I met him at the Kane County Courthouse. We adjourned to the Starbucks across the street to prepare him for his testimony. We then were to drive our own cars to the other lawyer's office which was located, literally, in the middle of nowhere. I called for directions. My witness -- one of those 20-somethings that lives on his mobile phone -- used GPS. I was on time. He was a half hour late -- GPS had gotten him hopelessly lost -- and he never would have made it had he not called me for directions.
So I wasn't wild about relying on GPS. "Well," I growled to Younger Daughter, "you relay the directions. I don't want to hear the stupid phone voice."
"That way it will be my fault," Younger Daughter said. She didn't ask. She didn't have to ask.
"Right," I confirmed.
Do you have traffic circles, sometimes called roundabouts, where you live? We have one in the Chicago area not too far from us. We avoid it like Chernobyl. It scares me to death. On the couple of occasions that I have been forced, for one reason or another, to venture through it, traffic seems to be coming from every direction at once, and randomly, and unpredictably besides.
But apparently the power-that-be in the outlying areas of Indianapolis are greatly enamored of traffic circles. At least they have installed them approximately every two blocks on the road that we were forced to take to the hospital.
We were forced to take this literally circuitous route because the main highway was closed due to construction. There was no surprise here. Wherever I want to go, no matter when, no matter how, I will encounter serious construction.
"At least it's still light out," Long Suffering Spouse said as I careened through still another traffic circle. "I'd hate to try this in the dark," she added.
"Yes," I managed. I was the picture of concentration, focused entirely on the swerving traffic around me. Still I heard Younger Daughter add, "Just two more of these to go and we're there."
And, for a wonder, the GPS was right.
Darkness was descending on Indianapolis as we parked in the hospital lot. So much for encountering traffic circles in daylight, I thought, but did not say. We'd not heard anything from inside the hospital for awhile (our last instruction was to come to the third floor waiting room). I scanned the darkening skies anxiously. I didn't see any storks.
Yes, I'm stretching this into three parts, I guess. Next: Waiting with the unhappy in-laws.
Friday, April 25, 2014
Curmudgeon becomes a grandfather again -- Part I
I hadn't written about Older Daughter's pending Blessed Event for reasons explained in this post. She's had such a tough time of it, and I didn't want to tempt Fate or Karma or Anything Else by writing prematurely. However, I believe the embargo is now lifted....
"If that kid is born deaf, don't say I didn't tell you so," I grumbled once again as Long Suffering Spouse regaled me with the tale of Older Daughter's latest ultrasound examination. "Even if the kid isn't deaf, she'll go berserk every time a dog whistle goes off anywhere nearby."
Because of the problems Older Daughter had in getting and staying pregnant, she took every possible opportunity to get an ultrasound examination performed. As a nurse in Indianapolis, Older Daughter found many such opportunities -- far more, I'm sure, than the average expectant mother in a different line of work. Older Daughter has more pictures of her child in utero than my wife and I do of our Youngest Son in the first year after he was born. Granted, there's a drop off in the number of photos taken of any child from the oldest to the youngest. By the time Youngest Son, the fifth-born, came along 21 years ago, we'd pretty much stopped taking pictures altogether. If he'd been kidnapped as a child, we'd have needed to use the annual school picture for the milk carton.
Anyway, with Older Daughter's pending child, we already knew she was a girl, and, thanks to the considerable advances in ultrasound technology since our own children were born, we'd already been subjected to debates about whose nose she has, or whose ears.
And Older Daughter got so big, so fast. I remember when Long Suffering Spouse was carrying Older Daughter. My wife still fit in her own jeans in the sixth month (she doesn't remember things quite that way, but I do). We both recall that she got bigger sooner with successive kids -- "well, everything has been stretched out of shape already," she'd lament -- and maybe that's what happened to Older Daughter, too. She never got very far with any of her previous attempts, but maybe her body reacted like this was a sixth or seventh pregnancy and not the first, true, lasting one. Maybe it's an IVF thing. I don't know. I don't really want to know.
It's not just here on the blog that I've been quiet about Older Daughter's baby. In real life I've been rather circumspect, too. Many of our close friends did not know until recently that Older Daughter was on the nest. I didn't mean to cause offense. Put it this way: The time to be happy, I'd say, on those occasions when I was challenged on account of my reticence, is when the baby is safely here. And not before.
Nevertheless, we were obliged to attend a baby shower a month or so ago in Indianapolis -- an event that surely rates its own post, or perhaps a chapter in the book I'm getting more and more determined to write -- but, with that exception, and it was forced upon us, Long Suffering Spouse and I have been verrrrry quiet about this pregnancy.
That doesn't mean that Older Daughter's pregnancy wasn't Topics A, B, C and sometimes D on the agenda at every family discussion. Older Daughter would call my wife two or three times a day, more on weekends, and she'd call her sister just as often. My mother-in-law would check in daily at least to inquire about Older Daughter's status. Granted, she'd want to tell us about the coming rainstorm, too, or the forecast of more snow (she always latches on to the most pessimistic weather forecast) and to talk about the latest topics in the news besides. It had gotten to the point where I couldn't exchange pleasantries with my wife until around 8:00 p.m., whether I came home early or late, because that was the time it would take for the day's phone calls with mother and daughter to wind down.
There was a flurry of speculation within the family that the baby would be born on Easter Sunday (the actual due date was May 3). My wife pooh-poohed such speculation, or she had, until sometime late last week, when her baby sense began to tingle.
I have mentioned, I think, that Long Suffering Spouse has an unerring sense of when a wee beastie has gotten into the house, whether she sees evidence of the creature or not. She just knows. And once she knows you had better be prepared to drop all regular activities for as long as necessary until said wee beastie is dispatched. With extreme prejudice.
In addition to that superpower, my wife also possesses an amazing baby radar. She can size a pregnant woman up and, in a moment, say, "soon," and the baby will come soon. Sometimes she can say "tomorrow," and you could make book on tomorrow. This extrasensory perception apparently relies on more than just sights and sounds. It also relies on pheromones or Higgs bosons or dark matter or something nifty like that, but nothing (of course) that my wife can articulate. But she knows just the same.
With Older Daughter away in Indianapolis, my wife's baby sense was not so sure -- even radar works better with objects closer as opposed to further away -- but she did have a lot of phone time with Older Daughter. That, and the report that Older Daughter made of fresh blood, which her doctor assured her was the "plug" coming loose (no, I don't really know exactly what that means and, no, I don't really want to know), caused, by the weekend, my wife to stop pooh-poohing those who were predicting Easter Sunday. She would not go so far as to commit to a day, however; she only pronounced "soon."
In her condition, Older Daughter could not join us for Easter Dinner. And, besides, as a professional church singer (in addition to his day job as an architect), Hank is extremely busy during the Triduum and on Easter. But Oldest Son came over with his wife, and Middle Son with his fiance, and even Youngest Son came down from South Janesville College for the day. (He was driving his girlfriend's car, but his girlfriend was in Europe, visiting relatives.) Our regular tenants, Olaf and Younger Daughter and the Baby to Be Named Later (and pretty darn soon now, since there's two of them), went to dine with Olaf's parents and aunts and uncles, but they joined our party already in progress. I was fairly bushed by the end of Sunday and my wife had this week off anyway and I had nothing up in court on Monday. I didn't need to think too hard about extending the weekend.
Besides, whether Older Daughter had the kid or not, Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter had committed to journeying to Indianapolis to provide such aid and comfort (and retail therapy) as they could. I counseled that they'd be better off going earlier in the week, as opposed to later, and my wife was coming around to this view. So by staying home Monday I could have one day with my wife during her week off.
Naturally, Long Suffering Spouse spent most of Monday morning on the phone with Older Daughter. Their discussion was focused on what they would do when Long Suffering Spouse got there (what, specifically, still needs to be bought?) and what food they would be bringing and how long they would be staying (Older Daughter wanted them to stay all week; Long Suffering Spouse was thinking Tuesday and Wednesday and being home for dinner Wednesday evening).
But, even in the midst of all these delicate negotiations, my wife was able to perceive that I wasn't really 'working from home,' as I had proposed to do Monday, I was merely playing a computer game. And having much too good a time at it, too. So Long Suffering Spouse decided that I needed to take the van in to get the tires rotated. "It's been a long winter," she told me, needlessly. No one who's been around this winter would need reminding. "And we're going to be driving this van a lot and soon, depending on when she has this kid." I grumbled a bit, but I could not dispute the logic. I saved my game and left.
"Have them check the brakes, too," she called on my way out the door. "I'll come get you if they're keeping the car."
She texted me shortly after I got to the tire place. There was at least one car ahead of me, I told her, and they hadn't yet looked at the van. I told her to stay home until I texted her.
"Well, your daughter is at the doctor's again," my wife texted back.
"Why?"
"More blood."
"More? That doesn't sound good."
"That's why she's at the doctor."
The tire rotation took 20 minutes or so; I apparently don't yet need new brakes.
I raced home to resume the conversation.
"They're giving her another ultrasound," my wife said -- and that brings you right to the beginning of this post.
We waited and we fretted. We fretted and we waited. We voiced our worry to each other.
Younger Daughter expressed surprise. "This is a side of you I didn't see when I was expecting."
Well, of course not, we told her. When you were in this situation, we explained, you didn't need to see us worry, though we did. Privately. But around you we were all happy and reassuring. That's our job.
"And, besides," added Long Suffering Spouse, "you were right here. We had a better sense of what was going on. Your sister is so far away."
Younger Daughter joined in fretting with the both of us.
Eventually the phone rang. Long Suffering Spouse was on it in an nanosecond. There was a pause, and, then, "OK, call us when you're situated." Long Suffering Spouse looked up at Younger Daughter and me hovering anxiously. "They're admitting her."
Apparently they weren't happy with the baby's heart rate. It was too low and, they said, it dropped further when Older Daughter stood up.
"So they're inducing?" I asked.
"No," said Long Suffering Spouse. "They're monitoring. They don't want to induce because she's still a couple of weeks early." Older Daughter was permitted to go home and pack a bag and return. "We'll know more in the morning."
Well, we didn't know much more next morning, you understand. We were told that, according to the monitoring devices, Older Daughter and baby passed the night just fine. These devices also documented that Older Daughter was in labor and the prior reservations about inducing gave way, among her medical providers, to a recommendation that they break her bag and put her on Pitocin. Older Daughter initially refused these enhancements, but her doctors weren't going to send her home regardless. The last tumblers clicked for my wife's baby sense. "Tonight," she said authoritatively, "tomorrow at the latest."
Well.
Given the imminent prospect of meeting a new grandchild, I decided to attach myself to this expedition. My wife agreed that they might find things for me to do. But first I had to stop in the office and see what, if anything, was going on.
You know, I have to tell you: I think my kids should have kids more often. It may be only coincidence, not cause, but I had two new files waiting for me Tuesday. I thought I was going to have to turn one of the new matters down -- they wanted me in court Wednesday and I had to explain I was about to leave town. Honestly, the surest way to attract legal business that I have found (and I have found very little business, of course, so take this with a large grain of salt) is to say that one is too busy to handle it.
I had to stay in the office a little longer than I'd planned. My wife called looking for me. "She's gone from 3 to 8," my wife told me. "They're going to break the bag." I have a vague, male understanding of what this jargon means. It means get the lead out, things are moving right along. I got moving as quickly as I could.
NEXT: The stork, and the Curmudgeon family, converge on Indianapolis.
"If that kid is born deaf, don't say I didn't tell you so," I grumbled once again as Long Suffering Spouse regaled me with the tale of Older Daughter's latest ultrasound examination. "Even if the kid isn't deaf, she'll go berserk every time a dog whistle goes off anywhere nearby."
Because of the problems Older Daughter had in getting and staying pregnant, she took every possible opportunity to get an ultrasound examination performed. As a nurse in Indianapolis, Older Daughter found many such opportunities -- far more, I'm sure, than the average expectant mother in a different line of work. Older Daughter has more pictures of her child in utero than my wife and I do of our Youngest Son in the first year after he was born. Granted, there's a drop off in the number of photos taken of any child from the oldest to the youngest. By the time Youngest Son, the fifth-born, came along 21 years ago, we'd pretty much stopped taking pictures altogether. If he'd been kidnapped as a child, we'd have needed to use the annual school picture for the milk carton.
Anyway, with Older Daughter's pending child, we already knew she was a girl, and, thanks to the considerable advances in ultrasound technology since our own children were born, we'd already been subjected to debates about whose nose she has, or whose ears.
And Older Daughter got so big, so fast. I remember when Long Suffering Spouse was carrying Older Daughter. My wife still fit in her own jeans in the sixth month (she doesn't remember things quite that way, but I do). We both recall that she got bigger sooner with successive kids -- "well, everything has been stretched out of shape already," she'd lament -- and maybe that's what happened to Older Daughter, too. She never got very far with any of her previous attempts, but maybe her body reacted like this was a sixth or seventh pregnancy and not the first, true, lasting one. Maybe it's an IVF thing. I don't know. I don't really want to know.
It's not just here on the blog that I've been quiet about Older Daughter's baby. In real life I've been rather circumspect, too. Many of our close friends did not know until recently that Older Daughter was on the nest. I didn't mean to cause offense. Put it this way: The time to be happy, I'd say, on those occasions when I was challenged on account of my reticence, is when the baby is safely here. And not before.
Nevertheless, we were obliged to attend a baby shower a month or so ago in Indianapolis -- an event that surely rates its own post, or perhaps a chapter in the book I'm getting more and more determined to write -- but, with that exception, and it was forced upon us, Long Suffering Spouse and I have been verrrrry quiet about this pregnancy.
That doesn't mean that Older Daughter's pregnancy wasn't Topics A, B, C and sometimes D on the agenda at every family discussion. Older Daughter would call my wife two or three times a day, more on weekends, and she'd call her sister just as often. My mother-in-law would check in daily at least to inquire about Older Daughter's status. Granted, she'd want to tell us about the coming rainstorm, too, or the forecast of more snow (she always latches on to the most pessimistic weather forecast) and to talk about the latest topics in the news besides. It had gotten to the point where I couldn't exchange pleasantries with my wife until around 8:00 p.m., whether I came home early or late, because that was the time it would take for the day's phone calls with mother and daughter to wind down.
There was a flurry of speculation within the family that the baby would be born on Easter Sunday (the actual due date was May 3). My wife pooh-poohed such speculation, or she had, until sometime late last week, when her baby sense began to tingle.
I have mentioned, I think, that Long Suffering Spouse has an unerring sense of when a wee beastie has gotten into the house, whether she sees evidence of the creature or not. She just knows. And once she knows you had better be prepared to drop all regular activities for as long as necessary until said wee beastie is dispatched. With extreme prejudice.
In addition to that superpower, my wife also possesses an amazing baby radar. She can size a pregnant woman up and, in a moment, say, "soon," and the baby will come soon. Sometimes she can say "tomorrow," and you could make book on tomorrow. This extrasensory perception apparently relies on more than just sights and sounds. It also relies on pheromones or Higgs bosons or dark matter or something nifty like that, but nothing (of course) that my wife can articulate. But she knows just the same.
With Older Daughter away in Indianapolis, my wife's baby sense was not so sure -- even radar works better with objects closer as opposed to further away -- but she did have a lot of phone time with Older Daughter. That, and the report that Older Daughter made of fresh blood, which her doctor assured her was the "plug" coming loose (no, I don't really know exactly what that means and, no, I don't really want to know), caused, by the weekend, my wife to stop pooh-poohing those who were predicting Easter Sunday. She would not go so far as to commit to a day, however; she only pronounced "soon."
In her condition, Older Daughter could not join us for Easter Dinner. And, besides, as a professional church singer (in addition to his day job as an architect), Hank is extremely busy during the Triduum and on Easter. But Oldest Son came over with his wife, and Middle Son with his fiance, and even Youngest Son came down from South Janesville College for the day. (He was driving his girlfriend's car, but his girlfriend was in Europe, visiting relatives.) Our regular tenants, Olaf and Younger Daughter and the Baby to Be Named Later (and pretty darn soon now, since there's two of them), went to dine with Olaf's parents and aunts and uncles, but they joined our party already in progress. I was fairly bushed by the end of Sunday and my wife had this week off anyway and I had nothing up in court on Monday. I didn't need to think too hard about extending the weekend.
Besides, whether Older Daughter had the kid or not, Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter had committed to journeying to Indianapolis to provide such aid and comfort (and retail therapy) as they could. I counseled that they'd be better off going earlier in the week, as opposed to later, and my wife was coming around to this view. So by staying home Monday I could have one day with my wife during her week off.
Naturally, Long Suffering Spouse spent most of Monday morning on the phone with Older Daughter. Their discussion was focused on what they would do when Long Suffering Spouse got there (what, specifically, still needs to be bought?) and what food they would be bringing and how long they would be staying (Older Daughter wanted them to stay all week; Long Suffering Spouse was thinking Tuesday and Wednesday and being home for dinner Wednesday evening).
But, even in the midst of all these delicate negotiations, my wife was able to perceive that I wasn't really 'working from home,' as I had proposed to do Monday, I was merely playing a computer game. And having much too good a time at it, too. So Long Suffering Spouse decided that I needed to take the van in to get the tires rotated. "It's been a long winter," she told me, needlessly. No one who's been around this winter would need reminding. "And we're going to be driving this van a lot and soon, depending on when she has this kid." I grumbled a bit, but I could not dispute the logic. I saved my game and left.
"Have them check the brakes, too," she called on my way out the door. "I'll come get you if they're keeping the car."
She texted me shortly after I got to the tire place. There was at least one car ahead of me, I told her, and they hadn't yet looked at the van. I told her to stay home until I texted her.
"Well, your daughter is at the doctor's again," my wife texted back.
"Why?"
"More blood."
"More? That doesn't sound good."
"That's why she's at the doctor."
The tire rotation took 20 minutes or so; I apparently don't yet need new brakes.
I raced home to resume the conversation.
"They're giving her another ultrasound," my wife said -- and that brings you right to the beginning of this post.
We waited and we fretted. We fretted and we waited. We voiced our worry to each other.
Younger Daughter expressed surprise. "This is a side of you I didn't see when I was expecting."
Well, of course not, we told her. When you were in this situation, we explained, you didn't need to see us worry, though we did. Privately. But around you we were all happy and reassuring. That's our job.
"And, besides," added Long Suffering Spouse, "you were right here. We had a better sense of what was going on. Your sister is so far away."
Younger Daughter joined in fretting with the both of us.
Eventually the phone rang. Long Suffering Spouse was on it in an nanosecond. There was a pause, and, then, "OK, call us when you're situated." Long Suffering Spouse looked up at Younger Daughter and me hovering anxiously. "They're admitting her."
Apparently they weren't happy with the baby's heart rate. It was too low and, they said, it dropped further when Older Daughter stood up.
"So they're inducing?" I asked.
"No," said Long Suffering Spouse. "They're monitoring. They don't want to induce because she's still a couple of weeks early." Older Daughter was permitted to go home and pack a bag and return. "We'll know more in the morning."
Well, we didn't know much more next morning, you understand. We were told that, according to the monitoring devices, Older Daughter and baby passed the night just fine. These devices also documented that Older Daughter was in labor and the prior reservations about inducing gave way, among her medical providers, to a recommendation that they break her bag and put her on Pitocin. Older Daughter initially refused these enhancements, but her doctors weren't going to send her home regardless. The last tumblers clicked for my wife's baby sense. "Tonight," she said authoritatively, "tomorrow at the latest."
Well.
Given the imminent prospect of meeting a new grandchild, I decided to attach myself to this expedition. My wife agreed that they might find things for me to do. But first I had to stop in the office and see what, if anything, was going on.
You know, I have to tell you: I think my kids should have kids more often. It may be only coincidence, not cause, but I had two new files waiting for me Tuesday. I thought I was going to have to turn one of the new matters down -- they wanted me in court Wednesday and I had to explain I was about to leave town. Honestly, the surest way to attract legal business that I have found (and I have found very little business, of course, so take this with a large grain of salt) is to say that one is too busy to handle it.
I had to stay in the office a little longer than I'd planned. My wife called looking for me. "She's gone from 3 to 8," my wife told me. "They're going to break the bag." I have a vague, male understanding of what this jargon means. It means get the lead out, things are moving right along. I got moving as quickly as I could.
NEXT: The stork, and the Curmudgeon family, converge on Indianapolis.
Wednesday, October 09, 2013
Late afternoon, early morning phone calls shatter your nerves as well
It is always a nervous time in the Curmudgeon home, don't get me wrong. A young Woody Allen would complain that we're all too neurotic, even for him. A young Robin Williams would complain that we're far too manic for him to be comfortable.
But we have been even more on edge than usual for the past several weeks because Older Daughter has tried her luck again with IVF -- a different doctor -- different medications -- same old roller coaster ride (for more about Older Daughter's past IVF experiences, click on the IVF tab at the bottom of this post).
Except.
Except maybe -- this time -- there may be a different outcome.
No, I haven't written about this latest attempt before. I've written about others and they all turned out badly. I won't write about the details now. I don't believe in tempting fate. But I have to mention -- to tell this story -- that, despite an inauspicious beginning, and some very dark moments along the way, things had progressed, as of yesterday, to the point where an ultrasound was scheduled and it was anticipated that a heartbeat would be clearly visible.
Older Daughter is in Indianapolis; the rest of us are in Chicago. We had to wait for her report. Nervously.
She got hold of her sister first. "Hello?" said Younger Daughter. "What's the news?"
There was silence on the end of the line.
"Hello?" repeated Younger Daughter. "Are you there?" (She wanted to ask, are you OK? but there was no way to frame that question in a way that would get a 'yes' answer if the news were bad -- and the continued silence was really getting to her.)
"I'm really pregnant," came the response, finally. Oh, so softly.
So understated that Younger Daughter had to consider an extra second or two whether the news was good or bad.
Long Suffering Spouse later reported a similar lull at the outset of her eventual conversation with Older Daughter. "I couldn't tell if it was good news or bad at first," she told me later. "But she's so happy -- and I'm so happy for her -- but, I have to tell you, if she said 'it's surreal' one more time, I was going to reach through the phone and strangle her, happy or not."
No, she wasn't really threatening her child; she was venting pressure. We all were. Older Daughter called six more times or so. Long Suffering Spouse had her on the speakerphone at one point as Older Daughter was talking about really wanting to eat salty foods and drink milk.
"Pretty soon you'll want pickles and ice cream," I said. No, Long Suffering Spouse never had bizarre cravings like that, but I've watched my share of sitcoms, back in the day.
"They both sound good," Older Daughter said, "but maybe not together."
"So is it official?" I asked. "Can I start drinking for two?"
"Well, my husband is," she said. "I bought him a bottle of 10 year old Bushmill's this afternoon on my way home from the doctor."
Older Daughter had told her husband she'd buy him a bottle of good whiskey when she knew she was pregnant. This was actually bottle number two -- she'd bought another one a couple of weeks ago when a prior ultrasound demonstrated a fetal pull (the precursor of a heartbeat). In her excitement at the time, she'd confided all this to the salesman who waited on her in the liquor store. She saw the same salesman yesterday afternoon, she told us.
"And he said 'so this means things are going well?' and I said 'you remembered?' and he said 'I told you I'd be praying for you.'"
"You have no idea how many people have been praying for you," Long Suffering Spouse interjected at this point. "So many."
Yes, there was a general lessening of tension in the Curmudgeon household yesterday evening -- great happiness and joy (and relief) for Older Daughter and her husband Hank.
And, then, this morning, at about 6:40 or so, the house phone rang. Long Suffering Spouse was already downstairs; I was still getting dressed. She beat me to the closest phone. I had no doubt about who was calling; I ran down the stairs half-dressed. Fortunately I did not trip on my untied shoelaces.
Long Suffering Spouse heard me coming and met me in the dining room.
"She's going to kill me," she said.
"What's wrong?" I asked. I didn't really want to know, but I knew I would have to listen.
"Nothing," my wife said. "She just called to say she hopes I have a nice day. I almost had a heart attack there."
"Me too. Was there anything else?"
"Well, yeah, she said she must have been so stressed yesterday that this morning she could hardly move."
"I'll just bet."
Younger Daughter stumbled down the steps a moment later. "Who was that, as if I didn't know? What happened?"
"Everything's fine," Long Suffering Spouse and I said at once. Long Suffering Spouse continued to explain about how Older Daughter complained about being unable to move this morning."
"At one point yesterday," Younger Daughter told us, "she told me her co-workers must all hate her. She kept looking at the clock. Six hours to go, she'd tell them. Five and a half hours to go. If even she realized that she was making everyone around her crazy, it must have been awful."
"How are we going to survive until May?" asked Long Suffering Spouse, but neither I nor Younger Daughter have an answer to that one.
Calls after midnight are the ones that are supposed to scare us, right? Nothing good happens after midnight? But now, we see, calls in the middle of the day -- and certainly first thing in the morning -- can be just as frightening.
And that was just the beginning of my day.
Tomorrow's post will cover the next crisis that arose -- all before I got into the office....
But we have been even more on edge than usual for the past several weeks because Older Daughter has tried her luck again with IVF -- a different doctor -- different medications -- same old roller coaster ride (for more about Older Daughter's past IVF experiences, click on the IVF tab at the bottom of this post).
Except.
Except maybe -- this time -- there may be a different outcome.
No, I haven't written about this latest attempt before. I've written about others and they all turned out badly. I won't write about the details now. I don't believe in tempting fate. But I have to mention -- to tell this story -- that, despite an inauspicious beginning, and some very dark moments along the way, things had progressed, as of yesterday, to the point where an ultrasound was scheduled and it was anticipated that a heartbeat would be clearly visible.
Older Daughter is in Indianapolis; the rest of us are in Chicago. We had to wait for her report. Nervously.
She got hold of her sister first. "Hello?" said Younger Daughter. "What's the news?"
There was silence on the end of the line.
"Hello?" repeated Younger Daughter. "Are you there?" (She wanted to ask, are you OK? but there was no way to frame that question in a way that would get a 'yes' answer if the news were bad -- and the continued silence was really getting to her.)
"I'm really pregnant," came the response, finally. Oh, so softly.
So understated that Younger Daughter had to consider an extra second or two whether the news was good or bad.
Long Suffering Spouse later reported a similar lull at the outset of her eventual conversation with Older Daughter. "I couldn't tell if it was good news or bad at first," she told me later. "But she's so happy -- and I'm so happy for her -- but, I have to tell you, if she said 'it's surreal' one more time, I was going to reach through the phone and strangle her, happy or not."
No, she wasn't really threatening her child; she was venting pressure. We all were. Older Daughter called six more times or so. Long Suffering Spouse had her on the speakerphone at one point as Older Daughter was talking about really wanting to eat salty foods and drink milk.
"Pretty soon you'll want pickles and ice cream," I said. No, Long Suffering Spouse never had bizarre cravings like that, but I've watched my share of sitcoms, back in the day.
"They both sound good," Older Daughter said, "but maybe not together."
"So is it official?" I asked. "Can I start drinking for two?"
"Well, my husband is," she said. "I bought him a bottle of 10 year old Bushmill's this afternoon on my way home from the doctor."
Older Daughter had told her husband she'd buy him a bottle of good whiskey when she knew she was pregnant. This was actually bottle number two -- she'd bought another one a couple of weeks ago when a prior ultrasound demonstrated a fetal pull (the precursor of a heartbeat). In her excitement at the time, she'd confided all this to the salesman who waited on her in the liquor store. She saw the same salesman yesterday afternoon, she told us.
"And he said 'so this means things are going well?' and I said 'you remembered?' and he said 'I told you I'd be praying for you.'"
"You have no idea how many people have been praying for you," Long Suffering Spouse interjected at this point. "So many."
Yes, there was a general lessening of tension in the Curmudgeon household yesterday evening -- great happiness and joy (and relief) for Older Daughter and her husband Hank.
And, then, this morning, at about 6:40 or so, the house phone rang. Long Suffering Spouse was already downstairs; I was still getting dressed. She beat me to the closest phone. I had no doubt about who was calling; I ran down the stairs half-dressed. Fortunately I did not trip on my untied shoelaces.
Long Suffering Spouse heard me coming and met me in the dining room.
"She's going to kill me," she said.
"What's wrong?" I asked. I didn't really want to know, but I knew I would have to listen.
"Nothing," my wife said. "She just called to say she hopes I have a nice day. I almost had a heart attack there."
"Me too. Was there anything else?"
"Well, yeah, she said she must have been so stressed yesterday that this morning she could hardly move."
"I'll just bet."
Younger Daughter stumbled down the steps a moment later. "Who was that, as if I didn't know? What happened?"
"Everything's fine," Long Suffering Spouse and I said at once. Long Suffering Spouse continued to explain about how Older Daughter complained about being unable to move this morning."
"At one point yesterday," Younger Daughter told us, "she told me her co-workers must all hate her. She kept looking at the clock. Six hours to go, she'd tell them. Five and a half hours to go. If even she realized that she was making everyone around her crazy, it must have been awful."
"How are we going to survive until May?" asked Long Suffering Spouse, but neither I nor Younger Daughter have an answer to that one.
Calls after midnight are the ones that are supposed to scare us, right? Nothing good happens after midnight? But now, we see, calls in the middle of the day -- and certainly first thing in the morning -- can be just as frightening.
And that was just the beginning of my day.
Tomorrow's post will cover the next crisis that arose -- all before I got into the office....
Tuesday, April 09, 2013
The family that stresses together, bickers
Older Daughter was in Chicago this weekend, without either her husband or dog. Older Daughter was recently implanted for the fourth time. These were frozen leftovers from her last unsuccessful attempt. The pirates that run the fertility clinic promise to refund a portion of the king's ransom that Hank and Older Daughter have paid (with the generous assistance of Hank's parents) if no baby is brought forth as a result of their efforts -- a three strikes and you're out policy -- but there are conditions, stipulations, provisos. And because of these two frozen leftovers from the last failure, Older Daughter was obliged to try again.
No one thought it would work any better this time. Not Hank, not Older Daughter, not the pirates who run the clinic. But the thieves would not consider the promised refund without this last humiliation. Older Daughter is trying to start a new job -- something about having fertility problems and working in a children's hospital was wreaking havoc with her mental health: Every time she'd fail to 'catch' some mouth-breathing idiots would present at her ER with a baby who had 'fallen.' The police would be called. Sometimes the baby would live. The poor thing would always be Older Daughter's patient -- and she would be left to consider the lunacy of a Universe where she cannot conceive a child, but where scabrous, execrable, thrice-cursed mental defectives can effortlessly pop out beautiful children, with neither thought nor effort, only to beat them to death, or near enough.
So Older Daughter found new work -- faster than she thought possible -- work that should pay more and be less stressful -- if, of course, she doesn't lose said new job in the course of losing these last embryos. Hank is venting his bitterness at Older Daughter; she vents right back. So being at home didn't seem like a good idea for her this weekend.
And she could count days on a calendar. Each prior attempt had ended at this-many-days after implantation. Each time she'd been in Indianapolis. This time, she wanted to be in Chicago. (She got through the weekend -- but the outlook is still bleak this morning. I've said this before, but it seems again an inescapable conclusion: The 'doctors' at Older Daughter's clinic can't do anything right, but they are always right about things going wrong.)
So that was a pleasant visit.
Long Suffering Spouse was sick on top of it. We supposedly got to 70 degrees on Saturday. Long Suffering Spouse wore two sweatshirts, one with a hood, curled up beneath two blankets, complaining that she was 'freezing.' It was no way to finish up her Spring Break -- and she still had mountains of papers to grade. She'd rally on Sunday, then stay up until 1:30 Monday morning trying (unsuccessfully) to finish everything she hadn't quite gotten to.
Younger Daughter and her husband are stressed, too. Olaf will -- I think -- graduate in May. Finally. He passed the exit exam a couple of months ago, but he still must complete a stupid, pointless, one-hour course that involves group presentations by math majors for other math majors. Most of the math majors at the school Olaf and Younger Daughter attended will go into teaching -- they have mastered Math Lite at best. Two of the worst of these were 'randomly' assigned to be Olaf's partners for these presentations. Olaf's grade, of course, is dependent on the performance of his colleagues. At the last such performance, one of Olaf's partners stumbled out of the room in the middle of the presentation, so drunk that he could no longer contain the contents of his stomach.
And Olaf had a lovely day at work yesterday, too. He got his job because he and Younger Daughter had a classmate whose father is president of a manufacturing concern. The father had gone to the math department at Olaf's school looking for someone to train to take over quality control at his plant, but the math department couldn't think of anyone who might be interested. It was his daughter who suggested Olaf.
And Olaf likes the work, and is good at it, too, apparently. He's not on salary yet -- his hourly wage wouldn't be that terrible, though, if he weren't hoping to support a wife and child with it -- but the plan was that he would move into a job that his boss would vacate by moving into the job that his boss would vacate. Inasmuch as Olaf's boss is 60-something and the boss's boss is 70-something and in questionable health, the succession is only a matter of training and time. But after Younger Daughter confided in her girlfriend -- the president's daughter -- about her hopes that Olaf would soon be on salary, the president took Olaf aside (this was yesterday) and said he should not expect to be put on salary upon graduation.
The young people took this rather badly. I tried to explain -- remember my mantra, act as if you own the place -- that, right now, three people are doing two jobs. Of course no big raise can be forthcoming... until the logjam breaks at the top. I suppose that Olaf is a victim of his own success -- the stress on Olaf's bosses has been lessened by his quickly learning the responsibilities of his eventual job. But time is on Olaf's side -- if he doesn't overreact.
I was home yesterday to deal with this crisis in real time because Younger Daughter had a doctor's appointment and I was supposed to babysit The Granddaughter To Be Named Later. Younger Daughter is worried about a condition -- I haven't pressed for details obviously -- but she feels the need to see the surgeon who removed the better part of my colon. My wife is sure that Younger Daughter's problem, whatever it is, is not that serious. But I haven't discouraged Younger Daughter -- not with our family history. Even so, this was not supposed to be a long session, and I had hopes that the baby might even sleep through the whole thing -- the doctor's appointment time coincided with baby's nap time. But it was a particularly short session, actually, because, despite Long Suffering Spouse's repeated admonishments, Younger Daughter somehow managed to forget to bring her insurance card with her.
Speaking of Long Suffering Spouse, she had a terrible day yesterday, too. She'd gone to a seminar Thursday -- during her break -- and she needed to provide her principal with her certificate of attendance and, of course, the bill for said seminar, in order to obtain reimbursement. She'd copied everything herself, everything except the bill, which I dug out yesterday morning and copied for her. Not without changing the print cartridge, of course, but still, I handed her the missing piece of paper and I watched her clip it into the rest of the related papers -- and then I resumed doing whatever I had been doing previously.
Early in the morning I had a phone call from Long Suffering Spouse. Had she left these papers at home? I checked all the locations she asked, and a few more besides: No, she had not. She'd gone through her papers six different times, she said, and couldn't find it either. Had she given these papers to the principal inadvertently, stuck behind her lesson plans? If she had, the principal hadn't found them by late afternoon. I'd already called Long Suffering Spouse wondering if she was planning to return home before dark and a time had been duly appointed when I should fetch her. In between, though, the principal found her. "I forgot to tell you," enthused the principal, "I found a whole new Spanish textbook -- everything online. I want you to take a look at it." Long Suffering Spouse was still reeling from the blow as she related this to me in the school parking lot. "You know what this means, don't you?" she asked, rhetorically. "She wants me to change textbooks. I'll have to re-plan the entire program. Start from scratch."
Older Daughter called at this point, so I was back at the computer when Long Suffering Spouse next blew up. She'd gone into the kitchen and realized that Younger Daughter had taken no steps toward preparing dinner.
Well, in addition to the aborted doctor's appointment and the employment crisis, Younger Daughter had taken the baby to the pediatrician.
See, the baby has decided that now would be a great time to sprout some teeth.
Baby teeth literally do erupt, I'd pointed out to Olaf over the weekend. Yesterday there was nothing. Now there's a tooth. You could run your fingers over the baby's lower gum and feel it. Everyone did. "Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" cried the baby. In baby talk that means, "I sure as heck hope you all washed your hands first."
Anyway, with teeth come all sorts of other problems. Sleep becomes more fitful, for one. And the baby, always prone to diaper rash, now has a fire engine-red bottom that would make a baboon jealous. Long Suffering Spouse has been trying to counsel the kids to use cloth diapers. I've chimed in. But it turns out they're really afraid of pins -- they don't want to stick the baby. I stuck all of my kids, from time to time. I stuck myself more. It's a small price to pay to avoid extreme baboon butt. But Younger Daughter went to the doctor instead, hoping to get medicine. She never did get into the kitchen, though, and her mother was not pleased.
"We had babies. They all had teething problems. We still ate." Long Suffering Spouse was on a roll. "I don't think that girl would eat at all if she weren't living here," she told me (the kids had gone out by this time to fill the prescription and to buy more formula).
Long Suffering Spouse made dinner for all of us. She and I ate ours and went for a walk. The kids were still out. "I don't think I can work any harder," she told me as we made the turn at the park. "I don't think Older Daughter can do more than she's doing. And Younger Daughter is so stressed out by that baby -- I don't know how we can get them through this." I'd told her, by this time, about the salary crisis. "They're going to be with us forever," she said, "and they think you want to throw them out." Sure, I want my house back, I said -- but I understand what must be done and I'm doing it -- why can't everyone understand that?
"And you can't work any harder," Long Suffering Spouse said.
I had to contradict her. "I'm not nearly at capacity," I admitted. "I've been lots busier, done lots more. I just can't get any money for what I do."
"So you're stressed by that. That's just as bad."
I had to be home Monday to babysit. But I planned to also work seriously on a questionnaire, required for an appointment I am seeking. Some salesmanship is required, as is total recall of my 33 years at the bar. And I must be accurate. But even if the persons who will evaluate me based on the questionnaire love me to death -- it won't boost my chances of securing that appointment. On the other hand, if they hate me, or if even some of them hate me, however, it will surely doom whatever infinitesimal chances I might have. So I must still do the best job I can.
The fax machine spat out an overdue bill this morning. These are for medical records for an insurance client that is behind in paying my bills. I got a bill in the email yesterday for a "service" that this same insurer makes me use -- one that allows it to delay paying my bills while they are being "processed." And I pay for the privilege. I thought I'd written about this, but I may not have had the stomach for it.
The first time I heard that $275 was involved in my signing up for this "service," I thought it was meant for me -- some wholly inadequate compensation, at least, for the exorbitant time I spent trying to meet the system requirements. It took six months to get my first bill paid -- and in the meantime I had found out that, no, I was expected to fork over $275 for this privilege. I don't know whether it was my whining or my raving that got the fee waived last year -- but I can expect no such accommodation this year.
So I'll continue working on my questionnaire this afternoon, not that it will do any good. If we do nothing, we can hope for nothing better.
No one thought it would work any better this time. Not Hank, not Older Daughter, not the pirates who run the clinic. But the thieves would not consider the promised refund without this last humiliation. Older Daughter is trying to start a new job -- something about having fertility problems and working in a children's hospital was wreaking havoc with her mental health: Every time she'd fail to 'catch' some mouth-breathing idiots would present at her ER with a baby who had 'fallen.' The police would be called. Sometimes the baby would live. The poor thing would always be Older Daughter's patient -- and she would be left to consider the lunacy of a Universe where she cannot conceive a child, but where scabrous, execrable, thrice-cursed mental defectives can effortlessly pop out beautiful children, with neither thought nor effort, only to beat them to death, or near enough.
So Older Daughter found new work -- faster than she thought possible -- work that should pay more and be less stressful -- if, of course, she doesn't lose said new job in the course of losing these last embryos. Hank is venting his bitterness at Older Daughter; she vents right back. So being at home didn't seem like a good idea for her this weekend.
And she could count days on a calendar. Each prior attempt had ended at this-many-days after implantation. Each time she'd been in Indianapolis. This time, she wanted to be in Chicago. (She got through the weekend -- but the outlook is still bleak this morning. I've said this before, but it seems again an inescapable conclusion: The 'doctors' at Older Daughter's clinic can't do anything right, but they are always right about things going wrong.)
So that was a pleasant visit.
Long Suffering Spouse was sick on top of it. We supposedly got to 70 degrees on Saturday. Long Suffering Spouse wore two sweatshirts, one with a hood, curled up beneath two blankets, complaining that she was 'freezing.' It was no way to finish up her Spring Break -- and she still had mountains of papers to grade. She'd rally on Sunday, then stay up until 1:30 Monday morning trying (unsuccessfully) to finish everything she hadn't quite gotten to.
Younger Daughter and her husband are stressed, too. Olaf will -- I think -- graduate in May. Finally. He passed the exit exam a couple of months ago, but he still must complete a stupid, pointless, one-hour course that involves group presentations by math majors for other math majors. Most of the math majors at the school Olaf and Younger Daughter attended will go into teaching -- they have mastered Math Lite at best. Two of the worst of these were 'randomly' assigned to be Olaf's partners for these presentations. Olaf's grade, of course, is dependent on the performance of his colleagues. At the last such performance, one of Olaf's partners stumbled out of the room in the middle of the presentation, so drunk that he could no longer contain the contents of his stomach.
And Olaf had a lovely day at work yesterday, too. He got his job because he and Younger Daughter had a classmate whose father is president of a manufacturing concern. The father had gone to the math department at Olaf's school looking for someone to train to take over quality control at his plant, but the math department couldn't think of anyone who might be interested. It was his daughter who suggested Olaf.
And Olaf likes the work, and is good at it, too, apparently. He's not on salary yet -- his hourly wage wouldn't be that terrible, though, if he weren't hoping to support a wife and child with it -- but the plan was that he would move into a job that his boss would vacate by moving into the job that his boss would vacate. Inasmuch as Olaf's boss is 60-something and the boss's boss is 70-something and in questionable health, the succession is only a matter of training and time. But after Younger Daughter confided in her girlfriend -- the president's daughter -- about her hopes that Olaf would soon be on salary, the president took Olaf aside (this was yesterday) and said he should not expect to be put on salary upon graduation.
The young people took this rather badly. I tried to explain -- remember my mantra, act as if you own the place -- that, right now, three people are doing two jobs. Of course no big raise can be forthcoming... until the logjam breaks at the top. I suppose that Olaf is a victim of his own success -- the stress on Olaf's bosses has been lessened by his quickly learning the responsibilities of his eventual job. But time is on Olaf's side -- if he doesn't overreact.
I was home yesterday to deal with this crisis in real time because Younger Daughter had a doctor's appointment and I was supposed to babysit The Granddaughter To Be Named Later. Younger Daughter is worried about a condition -- I haven't pressed for details obviously -- but she feels the need to see the surgeon who removed the better part of my colon. My wife is sure that Younger Daughter's problem, whatever it is, is not that serious. But I haven't discouraged Younger Daughter -- not with our family history. Even so, this was not supposed to be a long session, and I had hopes that the baby might even sleep through the whole thing -- the doctor's appointment time coincided with baby's nap time. But it was a particularly short session, actually, because, despite Long Suffering Spouse's repeated admonishments, Younger Daughter somehow managed to forget to bring her insurance card with her.
Speaking of Long Suffering Spouse, she had a terrible day yesterday, too. She'd gone to a seminar Thursday -- during her break -- and she needed to provide her principal with her certificate of attendance and, of course, the bill for said seminar, in order to obtain reimbursement. She'd copied everything herself, everything except the bill, which I dug out yesterday morning and copied for her. Not without changing the print cartridge, of course, but still, I handed her the missing piece of paper and I watched her clip it into the rest of the related papers -- and then I resumed doing whatever I had been doing previously.
Early in the morning I had a phone call from Long Suffering Spouse. Had she left these papers at home? I checked all the locations she asked, and a few more besides: No, she had not. She'd gone through her papers six different times, she said, and couldn't find it either. Had she given these papers to the principal inadvertently, stuck behind her lesson plans? If she had, the principal hadn't found them by late afternoon. I'd already called Long Suffering Spouse wondering if she was planning to return home before dark and a time had been duly appointed when I should fetch her. In between, though, the principal found her. "I forgot to tell you," enthused the principal, "I found a whole new Spanish textbook -- everything online. I want you to take a look at it." Long Suffering Spouse was still reeling from the blow as she related this to me in the school parking lot. "You know what this means, don't you?" she asked, rhetorically. "She wants me to change textbooks. I'll have to re-plan the entire program. Start from scratch."
Older Daughter called at this point, so I was back at the computer when Long Suffering Spouse next blew up. She'd gone into the kitchen and realized that Younger Daughter had taken no steps toward preparing dinner.
Well, in addition to the aborted doctor's appointment and the employment crisis, Younger Daughter had taken the baby to the pediatrician.
See, the baby has decided that now would be a great time to sprout some teeth.
Baby teeth literally do erupt, I'd pointed out to Olaf over the weekend. Yesterday there was nothing. Now there's a tooth. You could run your fingers over the baby's lower gum and feel it. Everyone did. "Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" cried the baby. In baby talk that means, "I sure as heck hope you all washed your hands first."
Anyway, with teeth come all sorts of other problems. Sleep becomes more fitful, for one. And the baby, always prone to diaper rash, now has a fire engine-red bottom that would make a baboon jealous. Long Suffering Spouse has been trying to counsel the kids to use cloth diapers. I've chimed in. But it turns out they're really afraid of pins -- they don't want to stick the baby. I stuck all of my kids, from time to time. I stuck myself more. It's a small price to pay to avoid extreme baboon butt. But Younger Daughter went to the doctor instead, hoping to get medicine. She never did get into the kitchen, though, and her mother was not pleased.
"We had babies. They all had teething problems. We still ate." Long Suffering Spouse was on a roll. "I don't think that girl would eat at all if she weren't living here," she told me (the kids had gone out by this time to fill the prescription and to buy more formula).
Long Suffering Spouse made dinner for all of us. She and I ate ours and went for a walk. The kids were still out. "I don't think I can work any harder," she told me as we made the turn at the park. "I don't think Older Daughter can do more than she's doing. And Younger Daughter is so stressed out by that baby -- I don't know how we can get them through this." I'd told her, by this time, about the salary crisis. "They're going to be with us forever," she said, "and they think you want to throw them out." Sure, I want my house back, I said -- but I understand what must be done and I'm doing it -- why can't everyone understand that?
"And you can't work any harder," Long Suffering Spouse said.
I had to contradict her. "I'm not nearly at capacity," I admitted. "I've been lots busier, done lots more. I just can't get any money for what I do."
"So you're stressed by that. That's just as bad."
I had to be home Monday to babysit. But I planned to also work seriously on a questionnaire, required for an appointment I am seeking. Some salesmanship is required, as is total recall of my 33 years at the bar. And I must be accurate. But even if the persons who will evaluate me based on the questionnaire love me to death -- it won't boost my chances of securing that appointment. On the other hand, if they hate me, or if even some of them hate me, however, it will surely doom whatever infinitesimal chances I might have. So I must still do the best job I can.
The fax machine spat out an overdue bill this morning. These are for medical records for an insurance client that is behind in paying my bills. I got a bill in the email yesterday for a "service" that this same insurer makes me use -- one that allows it to delay paying my bills while they are being "processed." And I pay for the privilege. I thought I'd written about this, but I may not have had the stomach for it.
The first time I heard that $275 was involved in my signing up for this "service," I thought it was meant for me -- some wholly inadequate compensation, at least, for the exorbitant time I spent trying to meet the system requirements. It took six months to get my first bill paid -- and in the meantime I had found out that, no, I was expected to fork over $275 for this privilege. I don't know whether it was my whining or my raving that got the fee waived last year -- but I can expect no such accommodation this year.
So I'll continue working on my questionnaire this afternoon, not that it will do any good. If we do nothing, we can hope for nothing better.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Older Daughter gets more bad news
All the signs and portents were so positive.
I suppose they always have been, early on, just after implantation.
The doctors feed Older Daughter with hope and inject her with drugs and she pees on sticks looking for faint lines and hoping they get darker.
They don't.
This was Older Daughter's third try at in vitro fertilization this year and this time the doctors weren't criticizing her eggs ("you have old eggs," they told her after the second failure -- old eggs? -- she's only 28!) but when the crop was harvested there weren't as many eggs as Older Daughter and her husband had been led to believe. (Why can't these doctors count? my wife and I would ask each other. How does 15 turn into 8 overnight? And, if their counting is so approximate, then why do they express it so definitely?)
Still, these eggs, if fewer than predicted, were Grade A Choice, and four of the eight fertilized began to increase and multiply. For the first time in her three efforts, my daughter was given the option to freeze two fertilized eggs for possible implantation later.
Siblings! my wife and I thought. We began to hope.
Hope. Such a nice word. Except in this case when it really describes us opening up our feelings to a savage emotional roller coaster ride. In a carnival roller coaster, the car is pulled up a hill by a cable attached to the chassis; the cable releases when the car gets to the top of the first hill and everyone rolls down -- and up the next one. In this case, however, we are grabbed by the heart and pulled along, then thrown down, left to stuff our innards back into our heaving chests when things go badly.
Now I know I've mentioned that Older Daughter is very impatient. She couldn't wait 48 hours for the results of her nursing boards, for example. She had to know immediately. And she figured out a way.
Hank, her husband, is no better.
They were coming to our house for Thanksgiving and they wanted to know what to tell us. The doctors wanted her to come in on Thanksgiving morning for a blood test. She wanted the test Tuesday. If it was bad news, she wanted some time to recover. The doctors said Tuesday was too soon. Eventually, though, there was a compromise: They would have tests both days.
The test is done in the morning; Older Daughter gets the results by phone later on that same day. That meant Older Daughter would be getting the results of her Thursday test en route from Indianapolis to Chicago.
Long Suffering Spouse and I added a layer of dread to our layer of hope. And Older Daughter would be standing up for her new niece on Saturday at the baptism of our granddaughter. Under the circumstances, we desperately wanted good news. We always have wanted good news, of course, but our desire was particularly urgent here.
Well, the test on Tuesday was OK. The test on Thursday was better. On Thursday the doctors told Older Daughter, "You are pregnant."
It was a happy weekend. Sure, we were all still walking on eggshells. Sure, we weren't assuming a happy ending. But a happy ending was in the realm of the possible now. We thought.
I didn't hear my wife's phone ring Sunday. She was in the living room with Younger Daughter; I was in the family room watching the Bears game.
I heard nothing until my wife called out. "It's over!"
I wasn't certain I'd heard correctly. But the tone was unmistakable. I went immediately into the living room. I sat down, bracing for the blow.
"It's over," Long Suffering Spouse repeated. "She had another blood test this morning. There was almost no change. Everything has stopped."
I had a plate in my hand; it was one from breakfast that I'd picked it up by reflex when I got up from my recliner. I didn't throw it, though I wanted to. I didn't curse (I don't think I did, not then). I suppose I didn't do much of anything. Maybe it was because Younger Daughter and my granddaughter were also in the room, and I'm still conscious about trying to set a good example. But maybe it was because, except for gathering up my scattered innards and stuffing them back into my chest, there was nothing else to do.
There's apparently no mistake. Older Daughter's doctors can't do anything right, but they're apparently never wrong about bad news.
Curmudgeons aren't supposed to cry. Besides, Long Suffering Spouse has done enough crying for both of us. But my allergies are particularly bad today.
I suppose they always have been, early on, just after implantation.
The doctors feed Older Daughter with hope and inject her with drugs and she pees on sticks looking for faint lines and hoping they get darker.
They don't.
This was Older Daughter's third try at in vitro fertilization this year and this time the doctors weren't criticizing her eggs ("you have old eggs," they told her after the second failure -- old eggs? -- she's only 28!) but when the crop was harvested there weren't as many eggs as Older Daughter and her husband had been led to believe. (Why can't these doctors count? my wife and I would ask each other. How does 15 turn into 8 overnight? And, if their counting is so approximate, then why do they express it so definitely?)
Still, these eggs, if fewer than predicted, were Grade A Choice, and four of the eight fertilized began to increase and multiply. For the first time in her three efforts, my daughter was given the option to freeze two fertilized eggs for possible implantation later.
Siblings! my wife and I thought. We began to hope.
Hope. Such a nice word. Except in this case when it really describes us opening up our feelings to a savage emotional roller coaster ride. In a carnival roller coaster, the car is pulled up a hill by a cable attached to the chassis; the cable releases when the car gets to the top of the first hill and everyone rolls down -- and up the next one. In this case, however, we are grabbed by the heart and pulled along, then thrown down, left to stuff our innards back into our heaving chests when things go badly.
Now I know I've mentioned that Older Daughter is very impatient. She couldn't wait 48 hours for the results of her nursing boards, for example. She had to know immediately. And she figured out a way.
Hank, her husband, is no better.
They were coming to our house for Thanksgiving and they wanted to know what to tell us. The doctors wanted her to come in on Thanksgiving morning for a blood test. She wanted the test Tuesday. If it was bad news, she wanted some time to recover. The doctors said Tuesday was too soon. Eventually, though, there was a compromise: They would have tests both days.
The test is done in the morning; Older Daughter gets the results by phone later on that same day. That meant Older Daughter would be getting the results of her Thursday test en route from Indianapolis to Chicago.
Long Suffering Spouse and I added a layer of dread to our layer of hope. And Older Daughter would be standing up for her new niece on Saturday at the baptism of our granddaughter. Under the circumstances, we desperately wanted good news. We always have wanted good news, of course, but our desire was particularly urgent here.
Well, the test on Tuesday was OK. The test on Thursday was better. On Thursday the doctors told Older Daughter, "You are pregnant."
It was a happy weekend. Sure, we were all still walking on eggshells. Sure, we weren't assuming a happy ending. But a happy ending was in the realm of the possible now. We thought.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I didn't hear my wife's phone ring Sunday. She was in the living room with Younger Daughter; I was in the family room watching the Bears game.
I heard nothing until my wife called out. "It's over!"
I wasn't certain I'd heard correctly. But the tone was unmistakable. I went immediately into the living room. I sat down, bracing for the blow.
"It's over," Long Suffering Spouse repeated. "She had another blood test this morning. There was almost no change. Everything has stopped."
I had a plate in my hand; it was one from breakfast that I'd picked it up by reflex when I got up from my recliner. I didn't throw it, though I wanted to. I didn't curse (I don't think I did, not then). I suppose I didn't do much of anything. Maybe it was because Younger Daughter and my granddaughter were also in the room, and I'm still conscious about trying to set a good example. But maybe it was because, except for gathering up my scattered innards and stuffing them back into my chest, there was nothing else to do.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
There's apparently no mistake. Older Daughter's doctors can't do anything right, but they're apparently never wrong about bad news.
Curmudgeons aren't supposed to cry. Besides, Long Suffering Spouse has done enough crying for both of us. But my allergies are particularly bad today.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Curmudgeon has another pedestrian insight
There is an inverse correlation between blogging activity and activity in real life.
When we get busy in our real lives, our online substitutes may be neglected.
You'd think this would almost certainly be healthy. Almost. A lot depends, of course, on what takes up our time in the real world.
In my case, I'm not entirely certain how healthy it is.
Sleep deprivation isn't healthy. Younger Daughter's baby is the picture of robust, chubby health. She is gaining weight and she's strong as an ox. When I say she is a true Viking baby her father Olaf just beams.
But I don't see much of Olaf these days. Because that chubby, healthy baby is colicky as all get out. Long Suffering Spouse says she's never heard a baby cry so much. It's taken me 55 years, five children and one grandchild to find out that 'colicky' is just another word for 'gassy.'
Well, colicky is a far more polite word, isn't it?
Anyway, Olaf isn't getting a lot of sleep at night and he has to be up at 4:30am for work as it is. And Younger Daughter -- as I mentioned previously -- is really taking the brunt of it. But Long Suffering Spouse and I have not been unaffected.
We'd been trying to get to bed earlier before our domestic arrangements were so thoroughly rearranged. The idea was that we were better in the morning, and got more done, so why not get up sooner? That meant we shouldn't fall asleep in front of the TV and stumble upstairs at 1:00 or 2:00am as we'd begun to do.
And have begun to do again inasmuch as there's no point going upstairs into the land of the screaming baby, is there? And Younger Daughter is glad for her mother's company as I snore loudly away in my chair, asleep again in front of the TV despite my best intentions.
Really gnawing at us, right now, is Older Daughter's latest struggle with IVF. Again I mentioned this before -- but it's a daily roller coaster with her. Every cramp, every twinge, may mean failure. Or not. She's cornered the market in home pregnancy tests -- she's jumping the gun, of course, but that's how she is. Impatient. She wants to know now whether things will work. We'd like to know, too. But it's not in our hands -- or hers -- and, despite their pretensions, it is certainly not in the hands of her doctors.
Older Daughter has taken a leave of absence from work because she's been told to 'take it easy' while we wait for the fertilized eggs to attach. If it really was necessary to be practically stock still for a week in order to get fertilized eggs to attach, the human species would have died out eons ago. Somehow, though, women keep working and cleaning and picking up after us men and still manage to get pregnant and bring forth babies. Yet, Older Daughter's doctors yelled at her yesterday because she drove her car. It might be ill-advised to try and lift her car, but drive it? All her doctors care about is having their excuses lined up: If things don't work out, it will all be Older Daughter's fault. (In a pig's eye.)
Today seems like an uptick on the roller coaster and we're all happy. This may change the next time the phone rings. But I know this: If it works or if it doesn't, I will still have no use for these doctors who think they know everything and have no more control than... me.
When we get busy in our real lives, our online substitutes may be neglected.
You'd think this would almost certainly be healthy. Almost. A lot depends, of course, on what takes up our time in the real world.
In my case, I'm not entirely certain how healthy it is.
Sleep deprivation isn't healthy. Younger Daughter's baby is the picture of robust, chubby health. She is gaining weight and she's strong as an ox. When I say she is a true Viking baby her father Olaf just beams.
But I don't see much of Olaf these days. Because that chubby, healthy baby is colicky as all get out. Long Suffering Spouse says she's never heard a baby cry so much. It's taken me 55 years, five children and one grandchild to find out that 'colicky' is just another word for 'gassy.'
Well, colicky is a far more polite word, isn't it?
Anyway, Olaf isn't getting a lot of sleep at night and he has to be up at 4:30am for work as it is. And Younger Daughter -- as I mentioned previously -- is really taking the brunt of it. But Long Suffering Spouse and I have not been unaffected.
We'd been trying to get to bed earlier before our domestic arrangements were so thoroughly rearranged. The idea was that we were better in the morning, and got more done, so why not get up sooner? That meant we shouldn't fall asleep in front of the TV and stumble upstairs at 1:00 or 2:00am as we'd begun to do.
And have begun to do again inasmuch as there's no point going upstairs into the land of the screaming baby, is there? And Younger Daughter is glad for her mother's company as I snore loudly away in my chair, asleep again in front of the TV despite my best intentions.
Really gnawing at us, right now, is Older Daughter's latest struggle with IVF. Again I mentioned this before -- but it's a daily roller coaster with her. Every cramp, every twinge, may mean failure. Or not. She's cornered the market in home pregnancy tests -- she's jumping the gun, of course, but that's how she is. Impatient. She wants to know now whether things will work. We'd like to know, too. But it's not in our hands -- or hers -- and, despite their pretensions, it is certainly not in the hands of her doctors.
Older Daughter has taken a leave of absence from work because she's been told to 'take it easy' while we wait for the fertilized eggs to attach. If it really was necessary to be practically stock still for a week in order to get fertilized eggs to attach, the human species would have died out eons ago. Somehow, though, women keep working and cleaning and picking up after us men and still manage to get pregnant and bring forth babies. Yet, Older Daughter's doctors yelled at her yesterday because she drove her car. It might be ill-advised to try and lift her car, but drive it? All her doctors care about is having their excuses lined up: If things don't work out, it will all be Older Daughter's fault. (In a pig's eye.)
Today seems like an uptick on the roller coaster and we're all happy. This may change the next time the phone rings. But I know this: If it works or if it doesn't, I will still have no use for these doctors who think they know everything and have no more control than... me.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Older Daughter to try again: Insult and injury and -- maybe -- motherhood?
Third time's the charm?
Older Daughter has decided she will try IVF again. Her husband, Hank, is not overly enthused.
It's not that he's lost his desire for children -- it's just -- well, the clinic that is providing this service for them entered into a 'three times and you're out' contract. After three tries, if no baby is produced, the clinic must provide a (partial) refund. (The refund would be a portion of the fee charged for implantation itself. The vast fortunes sunk into medications of one kind or another are not included in this refund policy at all.) Hank is looking forward and seeing the abyss. Older Daughter sees it, too, but her sister will soon have a baby -- all her friends are having babies -- she wants a baby. She wants a baby desperately.
The one thing the clinic is absolutely certain of is that neither of the two past failures were its fault. They are equally certain that Older Daughter is to blame.
The first time... well, there weren't enough eggs. She should have responded more to the egg-producing stimulation. But, that's OK, now that they knew Older Daughter did not respond properly to their perfectly correct medicine, they promised to increase her dosage (and hope her ovaries didn't explode -- no, seriously, they warned her that was a possibility -- and then they told her that she has to calm down in order to get pregnant).
When she still failed to "catch," the clinic was at first uncertain what to say. They'd have to look back at the data, they said.
They eventually decided two more things were wrong with Older Daughter.
First, she had a "little" endometriosis. But that was alright -- for another fee, and just a little post-surgical pain, they could remove that. At least temporarily.
Most recently, Older Daughter having recovered from the surgery and having recovered her willingness to endure the medications, shots, swelling, discomfort and other aspects of the procedure, the clinic told her she failed last time because she had "old eggs."
She's 28.
These are pirates. Cruel, sadistic pirates. And, now they've knocked her down again so low, they'll begin building her hopes up, little by little, to the point where she will go ahead with the procedure and....
Well, who knows what will happen?
Long Suffering Spouse has quoted statistics to me about infertility recently -- one in eight couples, she says, have trouble conceiving. At her Catholic school (and, remember, IVF is frowned upon by the Church) several of her students were produced by IVF. "You go through all of this," she said recently, "you spend mountains of money, you endure pain, humiliation, fear and if you finally do have a baby -- well, is it any wonder there are so many helicopter parents?"
I'm sure she's on to something.
As usual.
Older Daughter has decided she will try IVF again. Her husband, Hank, is not overly enthused.
It's not that he's lost his desire for children -- it's just -- well, the clinic that is providing this service for them entered into a 'three times and you're out' contract. After three tries, if no baby is produced, the clinic must provide a (partial) refund. (The refund would be a portion of the fee charged for implantation itself. The vast fortunes sunk into medications of one kind or another are not included in this refund policy at all.) Hank is looking forward and seeing the abyss. Older Daughter sees it, too, but her sister will soon have a baby -- all her friends are having babies -- she wants a baby. She wants a baby desperately.
The one thing the clinic is absolutely certain of is that neither of the two past failures were its fault. They are equally certain that Older Daughter is to blame.
The first time... well, there weren't enough eggs. She should have responded more to the egg-producing stimulation. But, that's OK, now that they knew Older Daughter did not respond properly to their perfectly correct medicine, they promised to increase her dosage (and hope her ovaries didn't explode -- no, seriously, they warned her that was a possibility -- and then they told her that she has to calm down in order to get pregnant).
When she still failed to "catch," the clinic was at first uncertain what to say. They'd have to look back at the data, they said.
They eventually decided two more things were wrong with Older Daughter.
First, she had a "little" endometriosis. But that was alright -- for another fee, and just a little post-surgical pain, they could remove that. At least temporarily.
Most recently, Older Daughter having recovered from the surgery and having recovered her willingness to endure the medications, shots, swelling, discomfort and other aspects of the procedure, the clinic told her she failed last time because she had "old eggs."
She's 28.
These are pirates. Cruel, sadistic pirates. And, now they've knocked her down again so low, they'll begin building her hopes up, little by little, to the point where she will go ahead with the procedure and....
Well, who knows what will happen?
Long Suffering Spouse has quoted statistics to me about infertility recently -- one in eight couples, she says, have trouble conceiving. At her Catholic school (and, remember, IVF is frowned upon by the Church) several of her students were produced by IVF. "You go through all of this," she said recently, "you spend mountains of money, you endure pain, humiliation, fear and if you finally do have a baby -- well, is it any wonder there are so many helicopter parents?"
I'm sure she's on to something.
As usual.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Happy Mother's Day, Mom! When do we eat?
We discharged our Sunday obligation at the first opportunity (7:00am Mass), leaving us with time to get our regular Sunday chores started before leaving to pick up Youngest Son.
Younger Daughter went with her mother to the grocery after breakfast; I got the laundry started. The last load was in the dryer before we left for Wisconsin. I admonished Younger Daughter to make certain the dryer was off before she left for a Mother's Day observance at the home of one of Olaf's aunts.
Our dryer is old. Most things in our house, at this point, are old, including its usual occupants. Appliances, like people, often develop little quirky behaviors as they age. My ancient computer (almost seven years old at this point!) starts making noises like a jet landing at O'Hare when it's thinking about crashing. The light in the first floor powder room sometimes refuses to turn off even when the switch is flicked. When the light switch is securely in the off position, the light will sometimes turn on anyway, all by itself. The timer or moisture sensor or whatever it is that makes a dryer go off doesn't always work on our dryer. Like the Engergizer Bunny, it sometimes keeps going... and going.... I want my clothes dry, but I don't need them fried to a crackly crunch.
Younger Daughter knows all about these little enhancements, and she promised faithfully to check the dryer before leaving. But she is getting married in less than a month. She was meeting yet another set of future shirt-tail in-laws, on their turf, and, of course, she is something like four months gone. So I wasn't entirely surprised when she called me as I was driving home from Wisconsin, looking to verify which was the proper exit for her and Olaf to use for their party, and admitted (in response to my question) that she had no idea whether the dryer had turned off before she left.
Long Suffering Spouse had piles of papers to correct -- what else is new? -- but she insisted on coming with me to pick up Youngest Son. She tried to grade some papers in the car -- but she has trouble doing that sort of thing in a moving vehicle.
Still, we picked up the boy without too much trouble. It turns out that South Janesville College was holding its commencement on Mother's Day and many of the streets around campus were closed for the occasion. After a couple of futile laps around the campus, Youngest Son found us a path through an alley and a sorority parking lot, bringing us into the street in front of his fraternity house where all his belongings were piled in a heap at the curb. It looked more like a Sheriff's eviction than organized packing for the summer, but it was easy enough to load the van and head out.
We knew what we were heading into.
Middle Son had already declared his intention to come visit on Sunday and Oldest Son and Abby agreed to come, too. Older Daughter couldn't come. She's missed so much time with her so-far unsuccessful IVF treatments that she'll be working most weekends at her Indianapolis hospital for the foreseeable future. She's managed to get clearance for her sister's wedding shower this weekend and, of course, for the wedding itself, and she'd made it up here for graduation -- there was just no way for her to get here for Mother's Day as well.
Long Suffering Spouse had decided to barbecue. When we got Youngest Son back, and his stuff out of the van (and the living room), she realized that she needed more charcoal and Worcestershire sauce and ketchup. Youngest Son and I went and obtained these items. Everyone else arrived in the meantime, even my mother-in-law. My wife thanked me for my efforts: "Why didn't you buy ice?"
I kept Long Suffering Spouse company by the grill while everyone else watched the White Sox bullpen blow up in a game they should have taken from the Royals. I really wanted a nap -- that was the best way to crown our labors of the morning -- but we were obliged instead to entertain. Younger Daughter and Olaf returned from their excursion somewhere along the way and everyone settled in for a long evening. My mother-in-law had gotten a number of old family photographs scanned (badly) and saved to a CD. My ancient computer could not read the disc, but Younger Daughter's computer could. Olaf emailed me the files. Younger Daughter noticed. "Did I say you could use my computer?" she asked, but not harshly.
"In a couple of weeks, it'll be my computer, too," Olaf answered.
"We'll just see about that."
I used my rudimentary photo-editing skills to improve the scans and saved them to my machine. My mother-in-law regaled one and all with descriptions of each picture, most of which were taken in Cuba during the 1950s and before.
After my mother-in-law left, I had the opportunity to sneak into my recliner, but the kids were determined that the party should continue. After awhile, Long Suffering Spouse started grading papers again. The older kids eventually got the hint and left. Youngest Son put on a movie.
I thought I might sneak off into Dreamland, but Olaf decided that now would be a great time to challenge me to a game of Words With Friends.
It was a tough game, especially when Olaf got 93 points in a single turn (X on a triple letter square, used in a word that stretched to the triple word square). Olaf says that Words With Friends should really be named Words-With-Soon-To-Be-Enemies. I think he decided this after I managed, despite my increasing fatigue, to come back and win the game.
The movie was good (Moneyball -- of course we'd watch a baseball movie at our house) but Youngest Son had seen it. He stretched out on the floor and went to sleep. Younger Daughter, the futon now hers alone, soon followed. Olaf was the last man standing, but he took off as soon as the movie concluded. It was after 10:00pm.
"Well, we can start our weekend now," I told Long Suffering Spouse.
"Happy Mother's Day," she said, "When do we eat?"
"You didn't really mind making dinner tonight," I ventured.
"No, not really," she conceded.
We both fell asleep, awaking at 1:00am or so to trudge up the stairs to our room where we could be in position for the 5:30am alarm.
Younger Daughter went with her mother to the grocery after breakfast; I got the laundry started. The last load was in the dryer before we left for Wisconsin. I admonished Younger Daughter to make certain the dryer was off before she left for a Mother's Day observance at the home of one of Olaf's aunts.
Our dryer is old. Most things in our house, at this point, are old, including its usual occupants. Appliances, like people, often develop little quirky behaviors as they age. My ancient computer (almost seven years old at this point!) starts making noises like a jet landing at O'Hare when it's thinking about crashing. The light in the first floor powder room sometimes refuses to turn off even when the switch is flicked. When the light switch is securely in the off position, the light will sometimes turn on anyway, all by itself. The timer or moisture sensor or whatever it is that makes a dryer go off doesn't always work on our dryer. Like the Engergizer Bunny, it sometimes keeps going... and going.... I want my clothes dry, but I don't need them fried to a crackly crunch.
Younger Daughter knows all about these little enhancements, and she promised faithfully to check the dryer before leaving. But she is getting married in less than a month. She was meeting yet another set of future shirt-tail in-laws, on their turf, and, of course, she is something like four months gone. So I wasn't entirely surprised when she called me as I was driving home from Wisconsin, looking to verify which was the proper exit for her and Olaf to use for their party, and admitted (in response to my question) that she had no idea whether the dryer had turned off before she left.
Long Suffering Spouse had piles of papers to correct -- what else is new? -- but she insisted on coming with me to pick up Youngest Son. She tried to grade some papers in the car -- but she has trouble doing that sort of thing in a moving vehicle.
Still, we picked up the boy without too much trouble. It turns out that South Janesville College was holding its commencement on Mother's Day and many of the streets around campus were closed for the occasion. After a couple of futile laps around the campus, Youngest Son found us a path through an alley and a sorority parking lot, bringing us into the street in front of his fraternity house where all his belongings were piled in a heap at the curb. It looked more like a Sheriff's eviction than organized packing for the summer, but it was easy enough to load the van and head out.
We knew what we were heading into.
Middle Son had already declared his intention to come visit on Sunday and Oldest Son and Abby agreed to come, too. Older Daughter couldn't come. She's missed so much time with her so-far unsuccessful IVF treatments that she'll be working most weekends at her Indianapolis hospital for the foreseeable future. She's managed to get clearance for her sister's wedding shower this weekend and, of course, for the wedding itself, and she'd made it up here for graduation -- there was just no way for her to get here for Mother's Day as well.
Long Suffering Spouse had decided to barbecue. When we got Youngest Son back, and his stuff out of the van (and the living room), she realized that she needed more charcoal and Worcestershire sauce and ketchup. Youngest Son and I went and obtained these items. Everyone else arrived in the meantime, even my mother-in-law. My wife thanked me for my efforts: "Why didn't you buy ice?"
I kept Long Suffering Spouse company by the grill while everyone else watched the White Sox bullpen blow up in a game they should have taken from the Royals. I really wanted a nap -- that was the best way to crown our labors of the morning -- but we were obliged instead to entertain. Younger Daughter and Olaf returned from their excursion somewhere along the way and everyone settled in for a long evening. My mother-in-law had gotten a number of old family photographs scanned (badly) and saved to a CD. My ancient computer could not read the disc, but Younger Daughter's computer could. Olaf emailed me the files. Younger Daughter noticed. "Did I say you could use my computer?" she asked, but not harshly.
"In a couple of weeks, it'll be my computer, too," Olaf answered.
"We'll just see about that."
I used my rudimentary photo-editing skills to improve the scans and saved them to my machine. My mother-in-law regaled one and all with descriptions of each picture, most of which were taken in Cuba during the 1950s and before.
After my mother-in-law left, I had the opportunity to sneak into my recliner, but the kids were determined that the party should continue. After awhile, Long Suffering Spouse started grading papers again. The older kids eventually got the hint and left. Youngest Son put on a movie.
I thought I might sneak off into Dreamland, but Olaf decided that now would be a great time to challenge me to a game of Words With Friends.
It was a tough game, especially when Olaf got 93 points in a single turn (X on a triple letter square, used in a word that stretched to the triple word square). Olaf says that Words With Friends should really be named Words-With-Soon-To-Be-Enemies. I think he decided this after I managed, despite my increasing fatigue, to come back and win the game.
The movie was good (Moneyball -- of course we'd watch a baseball movie at our house) but Youngest Son had seen it. He stretched out on the floor and went to sleep. Younger Daughter, the futon now hers alone, soon followed. Olaf was the last man standing, but he took off as soon as the movie concluded. It was after 10:00pm.
"Well, we can start our weekend now," I told Long Suffering Spouse.
"Happy Mother's Day," she said, "When do we eat?"
"You didn't really mind making dinner tonight," I ventured.
"No, not really," she conceded.
We both fell asleep, awaking at 1:00am or so to trudge up the stairs to our room where we could be in position for the 5:30am alarm.
Monday, May 07, 2012
Being busy means never having [time] to feel sorry for oneself
No, business hasn't picked up.
It's just as well, I suppose, because the demands of my personal life are overwhelming at this point.
For those who came in late, or who haven't been paying careful attention, here's where we stand (in no particular order of priority):
Long Suffering Spouse has often said that we should write about our lives -- but no one would believe it.
She doesn't know that I already do.
And it's our 30th wedding anniversary tomorrow, too. No, seriously.
It's just as well, I suppose, because the demands of my personal life are overwhelming at this point.
For those who came in late, or who haven't been paying careful attention, here's where we stand (in no particular order of priority):
- Younger Daughter graduated from college Saturday. She's getting married four weeks from this Saturday. Her baby is due in early October. Nothing like cramming several years' worth of life events into the span of a few months.
- And Younger Daughter, her husband and, in due course, their child, will be living with us for the foreseeable future: Younger Daughter has part-time work at her old school, but Olaf didn't quite graduate -- and he has to start studying for the exams that are the only way he can be successfully launched into a career as an actuary. We're really hoping he becomes employable before their kid is born -- that way the little guy will have insurance.
- Older Daughter, meanwhile, is not pregnant. She's been undergoing IVF treatments; this was her second attempt at implantation and everything seemed to be going well -- much better, certainly, than the first attempt -- except that, suddenly, it wasn't going well at all. These have been a couple of very busy, emotionally draining weeks in the Curmudgeon household.
- Older Daughter is, however, buying a house. She and Hank are stressed beyond reason -- Long Suffering Spouse is concerned for their marriage at this point -- but their dog was chewing the carpeting in their apartment. The only solution, in their view, was buying a house. House hunting has brought another problem to the surface in their relationship: Hank is perfectly content to stay in his native Indianapolis forever; Older Daughter somehow thinks that means he's ready to relocate to Chicago at any moment. There are other stresses in their relationship, too -- Hank is more devoted to his church choir than to his marriage. (Of course, Older Daughter did date this guy for about 60 years before they finally married -- and before she was married, she too was perfectly willing to sing in the same choir. Not since, however. And the fact that the choir director expects people to rearrange their careers, their families, their very lives around his sometimes random choir schedule hasn't helped. But surely Older Daughter saw this before the marriage, too, didn't she?)
- Older Daughter was at our house this weekend for her sister's graduation. Hank stayed behind. It wasn't just the choir that dictated that he remain; he's involved in a project for his father that necessitates his staying close to base. I can't describe the project without potentially compromising anonymity. Older Daughter will be dragged into the project tomorrow, however, on her day off, for at least 12 hours. She was furious about it -- and none to pleased with me when I tried to explain that she absolutely should paste a big smile on her face and help out tomorrow. She kept arguing with me (of course). I finally told her I could offer absolution, but I wouldn't mean it.
- Long Suffering Spouse is stressed beyond reason as well. She wants to mourn and comfort Older Daughter; she wants to be happy for and with Younger Daughter at the same time. It's a tough balancing act; she's shed a lot of tears, mostly when she thought no one was looking. And, have I mentioned? Long Suffering Spouse is cooking most of the dinner for the 100 or so wedding guests. (Our financial circumstances don't allow us many other options.) My wife won't even be through with school until the wedding -- the graduation Mass is only a few hours before Younger Daughter's nuptial Mass.
- Middle Son is taking another part of the CPA exam at the end of this month. Maybe. He's waiting to see if he passed his most recent test -- a retest of a part that he'd previously failed, but only by a little. He hasn't passed any of the tests yet. Some people test better than others; he knows this, but it's beginning to gnaw at his confidence. Meanwhile, his girlfriend Margaret, the one who's just graduating from college and will start at a higher salary than he makes three years out? She's working half-time this summer in order to prepare for her CPA exams. Middle Son fully expects she'll pass it all first time out of the chute. There's pride in his voice when he says this -- but there's something else in his tone, too.
- But Middle Son has been a trooper: He's been scouting for employment opportunities for Younger Daughter and looking for pitching opportunities for Youngest Son. Middle Son had a good collegiate pitching career -- until his back served notice, in no uncertain terms, that he could not hope to go on. Youngest Son, meanwhile, has had a pretty good freshman season -- he's gotten a fair amount of innings pitched, although his results have been mixed. We spoke last night: He's trying to prepare me for decidedly mixed results on his report card as well. Long Suffering Spouse wanted me to mention -- again -- how many hopeful history teachers were turned loose on an unsuspecting world at Younger Daughter's graduation. Long Suffering Spouse is certified as a history teacher, but she's given up hope of teaching that subject; there's no demand. She sometimes feels trapped as a Spanish teacher (she's also certified in Spanish) and she's increasingly worried that Youngest Son won't be able to find work when he gets out. Especially if he gets 'mixed results' in his coursework. Youngest Son is not entirely receptive.
- And then poor Abuela. Long Suffering Spouse's older sister, Dr. Doom, and her husband came to stay at Abuela's house last week. They brought with them their older daughter, her husband, and their two children. Abuela's oldest great-grandchild is now firmly in his terrible two's -- and my mother-in-law's house wasn't exactly child-proofed when my kids were toddlers. Dr. Doom and her family can easily afford a hotel, but they invited themselves over to Abuela's house because... because... because.... Well, I have no clue why, come to think of it. Abuela is (if memory serves) about to turn 79; she didn't need a house full of guests. (And, no, we didn't see these out-of-town visitors. Long Suffering Spouse and her sister haven't spoken since Abuelo died, 14 years ago. I spoke with Dr. Doom, via Skype, at the wedding of Josephine [Long Suffering Spouse's other sister] and Ferdinand in July 2010 -- I was at the church early, or the start of the Mass was delayed, or maybe both, and I was walking around trying to stay out of trouble when heard a disembodied voice. You ever want to get a good healthy startle -- just start hearing disembodied voices when walking around a church! Dr. Doom and her husband live in Cyprus [you'd really have to be an attentive, long-time reader to remember that] and Florida; I think they were overseas for Josephine's wedding and monitoring the proceedings via laptop computer. All I know for certain is that Dr. Doom wasn't happy about Josephine's newest husband either; it was the first time she and Long Suffering Spouse had agreed on anything in years.)
- Anyway, Abuela's house-guests were hardly gone before her sump pump began making ominous giving-up-the-ghost noises. Yes, Abuela's sump hole also had a guest-starring role in the "family way" posts I put up earlier this year. This time, though, unlike when the sump cover crumbled, I agreed she should call the plumber -- and she did -- and, even though she had to pay a stiff premium for service on a Sunday, with the rain in the Chicago area in the last few days, it seemed like a smart idea. The plumber left, however, before black sewer water began backing up in the basement bathroom. He'll be back today.
Long Suffering Spouse has often said that we should write about our lives -- but no one would believe it.
She doesn't know that I already do.
And it's our 30th wedding anniversary tomorrow, too. No, seriously.
Monday, April 30, 2012
On the roller coaster -- again
That tight grip of fear has got me again this morning. It's a helpless feeling, really, and all the more frustrating for that.
I've written about Older Daughter's struggles with IVF this year -- the "Family Way" posts in the archives will bring you up to speed, if you need to know, or just click on the "IVF" tab at the bottom of this post and start scrolling down when the new page loads.
But, other than mentioning why Long Suffering Spouse and I were in Indianapolis recently, I haven't subjected you to a lot of discussion on the latest efforts.
I'd rather brag on grandchildren when they're born.
But things had been rather optimistic -- mostly happy phone conversations between Long Suffering Spouse and Older Daughter, at least on that subject -- and we'd begun to think, well, this time may really be it.
Last night, though, Older Daughter texted that she was having cramps and spotting and she was going to bed. We already knew she had a doctor's appointment this morning.
My wife's cell phone went off at around 7:00am.
The news is decidedly mixed. The doctors still think Older Daughter is pregnant, but they can't say if she will hold the eggs with which she's been implanted. The cramps and spotting may turn into something else. But it might not go that route. Many women spot and cramp early in a pregnancy -- before they have any business knowing that they're pregnant, in fact -- and don't realize that it's not a variation on the monthly misery.
I am increasingly convinced that doctors can't do a whole heck of a lot besides monitor. Observe. Report. They think they can do so much more, but they really can't. They can't do a whole lot more for Older Daughter than I can, or her mother can -- and we're pretty helpless at this point. What will be, must be.
So the doctors can't really tell Older Daughter whether she's in trouble, or whether this momentary crisis will past and be largely forgotten as things progress.
And, if things do turn back around, and if things do go well in the end, I'd probably forget all about the hollow feeling I have right now -- unless I come back and review this post. The brain forgets, but the lining of my stomach acquires yet another scar.
I've written about Older Daughter's struggles with IVF this year -- the "Family Way" posts in the archives will bring you up to speed, if you need to know, or just click on the "IVF" tab at the bottom of this post and start scrolling down when the new page loads.
But, other than mentioning why Long Suffering Spouse and I were in Indianapolis recently, I haven't subjected you to a lot of discussion on the latest efforts.
I'd rather brag on grandchildren when they're born.
But things had been rather optimistic -- mostly happy phone conversations between Long Suffering Spouse and Older Daughter, at least on that subject -- and we'd begun to think, well, this time may really be it.
Last night, though, Older Daughter texted that she was having cramps and spotting and she was going to bed. We already knew she had a doctor's appointment this morning.
My wife's cell phone went off at around 7:00am.
The news is decidedly mixed. The doctors still think Older Daughter is pregnant, but they can't say if she will hold the eggs with which she's been implanted. The cramps and spotting may turn into something else. But it might not go that route. Many women spot and cramp early in a pregnancy -- before they have any business knowing that they're pregnant, in fact -- and don't realize that it's not a variation on the monthly misery.
I am increasingly convinced that doctors can't do a whole heck of a lot besides monitor. Observe. Report. They think they can do so much more, but they really can't. They can't do a whole lot more for Older Daughter than I can, or her mother can -- and we're pretty helpless at this point. What will be, must be.
So the doctors can't really tell Older Daughter whether she's in trouble, or whether this momentary crisis will past and be largely forgotten as things progress.
And, if things do turn back around, and if things do go well in the end, I'd probably forget all about the hollow feeling I have right now -- unless I come back and review this post. The brain forgets, but the lining of my stomach acquires yet another scar.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
A visit to Indianapolis -- Part II
Scroll down or click here for Part I.
So I missed Phillip Humber's perfect game. So what? White Sox pitchers have hurled three in their history, two during my lifetime. I missed both of them. (Buehrle's came in a day game against Tampa; I was at work. My wife held the phone to the TV during the ninth inning.)
Who cared? The important thing was that Older Daughter may or may not be pregnant. We want her to "catch" this time; that's why I'd accompanied Long Suffering Spouse on this mission of mercy -- not that we can do anything, mind you, except take up space, but when that's all you can do, you do it.
The other thing we did was go see the house the kids are planning to buy. Before we found out about the perfect game, Hank had to go over to his church -- an architect by trade, he's on the church building and grounds committee, too -- and Older Daughter thought that while he was on this errand she could show us the house.
I'd mentioned the house briefly yesterday. The house looks nice enough, I suppose, a two story, brick and siding affair with a two-car garage on a suburban-type street. Older Daughter insists that this house is merely a temporary stop, an investment, but that she and her husband will eventually move to Chicago. Hank has friends in Chicago, I'm told, and there's plenty of work here in his architectural specialty, if he can only get hooked up with the right job. I don't believe it. Hank's parents are in Indy; he's an only child. Hank has been tied into his church choir his whole life; he's a paid soloist besides.
"She's all alone down there," Long Suffering Spouse tells me.
But, when we'd seen the house, we drove back to the church (the house is much closer to the church than the apartment -- and, no, I'm not surprised by this either) and waited.
There was a wedding about to get underway. The daughter of two long-time choir members was being married; Hank and his wife had not been invited. That was something of a scandal (although Hank's parents were, so I think that makes up for that somewhat).
Anyway, we parked by the church -- Hank wasn't quite done yet -- and watched the invited guests arrive.
Now I don't know what it is about Protestantism that makes for such obnoxious punctuality. But Older Daughter assured me that all these guests hustling into the church were early, not late. Nobody's on time for a Catholic wedding, including the bride, but the good Episcopalians at Hank's church consider a person late if he's not an hour early. Since Older Daughter was married in that church, now almost three years ago, that was a matter of some stress for us at the time.
But the point is this: Older Daughter, who my wife fears is "all alone" in Indy, named every person passing by, providing sly biographical details for most of them.
After we returned from this errand, and after the baseball news, and after we'd resumed our Harry Potter film festival for awhile, it occurred to both my wife and me that now might be a good time to think about getting something to eat.
Older Daughter and Hank wanted to order pizza from a nearby place. The last time they'd ordered pizza from this place, when Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter were on their now-infamous road trip, during Older Daughter's first go-round with IVF, it had taken hours for the pizza to arrive. When the food finally did show up, green olives had been substituted for green peppers. My wife likes green olives well enough, I suppose, but not on pizza. But Hank didn't even call the joint to complain -- and, by that time, Long Suffering Spouse was hungry enough to eat olives or the cardboard box the pizza came in. (The box would have tasted better than the olives, she said later.)
So, naturally, of course, the kids would want to order from this place again, right? No? Well, that's what they decided to do, anyway.
Now, the first problem was what to order. While it was generally agreed that green olives were not a good idea, there was no agreement on virtually anything else. All I wanted was just plain cheese. I'm a boring person. Long Suffering Spouse will take sausage or pepperoni or green peppers, but not onions, licorice, ham and eggs or whatever it was that Hank and Older Daughter were talking about. Once I was assured that some portion of some pizza would be cheese only, I tuned the discussion out. Watching a Harry Potter movie for the 80th time was far preferable than watching Older Daughter struggle to make a decision.
Let's put it this way: I recall a discussion at Thanksgiving dinner in 2002. Older Daughter was then but a freshman in college, at the University of Illinois. She'd done from a high school of 350 or 400 girls to a college of 35,000 or 40,000. In high school, she'd had few schedule choices; in college, her choices were virtually unlimited. I asked her if her schedule was set yet. Everyone at the table assumed I was asking about her second semester schedule; Older Daughter and I both knew, however, that I was inquiring about her first semester schedule, the one that would end in just a week or two. "Almost," she said.
And this was without hormones, and shots and acupuncture and trying to buy a house besides.
Eventually, however, Older Daughter and her mother decided what to order -- but then Older Daughter could not figure out how to work the pizza joint's ordering system from her cell phone. She fiddled with it for what seemed like an eternity and then woke up Hank, who'd made the perfectly understandable decision to take a nap while the negotiations over toppings dragged on. She wanted him to place the order instead.
Hank was not pleased to be snatched from the arms of Morpheus.
In Hank's defense, I have to agree that naps are very important to me, too. I nap every chance I can get. I'd be napping now, only I have to write this post and prepare for an interview this afternoon. (OK, yes, I'm stalling on the interview prep by doing this post. Don't be such a pain.)
But, while I acknowledge that Hank had every right to be miffed at being prematurely awoken from his nap, it occurred to me, if not to him, that he was miffed at the woman who had just undergone hellish medical procedures in order to be able to carry his child. She wasn't functioning on all cylinders, true, but you'd think he'd make some allowances. Instead, he refused to place the order.
"They also have a phone," he said. "You could call them on the phone instead of placing the order online."
But she didn't want to call them on the phone; she wanted to place the order online and the site wasn't working on her phone. Hank gave her his. "Try this, then."
They must have bickered for another half hour before the order was eventually placed. I'm afraid I can't tell you if they did put the order in online or over the phone. I was verrrrry carefully not paying attention at this point.
Look -- yes, I am an attorney -- but, no, I don't particularly like conflict. I certainly don't like it in the home. Older Daughter, on the other hand, doesn't seem happy unless she's battling with someone. In this, she resembles my mother-in-law. Long Suffering Spouse and I have had a number of conversations about whether Abuela's home is getting to be too much for her. And it might be -- but we can't imagine her living with anyone either. It might technically be called an apartment in the suburbs but it would really be located in a state of perpetual conflict.
Older Daughter and I were alone in the living room at one point over the weekend, she on the couch, me still on that love seat (I was sitting or laying on that thing for 90% of the trip). Long Suffering Spouse had gone to the kitchen to chop up vegetables for a snack. My wife called out a question to her daughter, but I could see that Older Daughter was dozing, eyes closed and everything. I tried to answer in a stage whisper that she was sleeping -- when a sleepy voice from the couch interrupted: "I am not!"
As near as I can tell, Hank's no better. He'll pick at any scab he finds too.
Sometimes Long Suffering Spouse and I wonder how well these two really know each other. They don't seem as supportive of one another as we'd like, or in sync, or in tune, or whatever phrase you use in your experience. Hank knows that his wife can't lift anything consequential in these critical first few weeks, but after we'd gone home he refused to buy groceries. Later, though, he bought flowers and all was sweetness and light again.
Anyway, we got the pizza -- without green olives this time -- and, late as I thought it was, Long Suffering Spouse assured me (later) that this was at least two hours earlier than she'd been fed last time. "I think they were on their good behavior because you were there," she told me later when we were headed home. "That was their good behavior?" I asked.
So I missed Phillip Humber's perfect game. So what? White Sox pitchers have hurled three in their history, two during my lifetime. I missed both of them. (Buehrle's came in a day game against Tampa; I was at work. My wife held the phone to the TV during the ninth inning.)
Who cared? The important thing was that Older Daughter may or may not be pregnant. We want her to "catch" this time; that's why I'd accompanied Long Suffering Spouse on this mission of mercy -- not that we can do anything, mind you, except take up space, but when that's all you can do, you do it.
The other thing we did was go see the house the kids are planning to buy. Before we found out about the perfect game, Hank had to go over to his church -- an architect by trade, he's on the church building and grounds committee, too -- and Older Daughter thought that while he was on this errand she could show us the house.
I'd mentioned the house briefly yesterday. The house looks nice enough, I suppose, a two story, brick and siding affair with a two-car garage on a suburban-type street. Older Daughter insists that this house is merely a temporary stop, an investment, but that she and her husband will eventually move to Chicago. Hank has friends in Chicago, I'm told, and there's plenty of work here in his architectural specialty, if he can only get hooked up with the right job. I don't believe it. Hank's parents are in Indy; he's an only child. Hank has been tied into his church choir his whole life; he's a paid soloist besides.
"She's all alone down there," Long Suffering Spouse tells me.
But, when we'd seen the house, we drove back to the church (the house is much closer to the church than the apartment -- and, no, I'm not surprised by this either) and waited.
There was a wedding about to get underway. The daughter of two long-time choir members was being married; Hank and his wife had not been invited. That was something of a scandal (although Hank's parents were, so I think that makes up for that somewhat).
Anyway, we parked by the church -- Hank wasn't quite done yet -- and watched the invited guests arrive.
Now I don't know what it is about Protestantism that makes for such obnoxious punctuality. But Older Daughter assured me that all these guests hustling into the church were early, not late. Nobody's on time for a Catholic wedding, including the bride, but the good Episcopalians at Hank's church consider a person late if he's not an hour early. Since Older Daughter was married in that church, now almost three years ago, that was a matter of some stress for us at the time.
But the point is this: Older Daughter, who my wife fears is "all alone" in Indy, named every person passing by, providing sly biographical details for most of them.
After we returned from this errand, and after the baseball news, and after we'd resumed our Harry Potter film festival for awhile, it occurred to both my wife and me that now might be a good time to think about getting something to eat.
Older Daughter and Hank wanted to order pizza from a nearby place. The last time they'd ordered pizza from this place, when Long Suffering Spouse and Younger Daughter were on their now-infamous road trip, during Older Daughter's first go-round with IVF, it had taken hours for the pizza to arrive. When the food finally did show up, green olives had been substituted for green peppers. My wife likes green olives well enough, I suppose, but not on pizza. But Hank didn't even call the joint to complain -- and, by that time, Long Suffering Spouse was hungry enough to eat olives or the cardboard box the pizza came in. (The box would have tasted better than the olives, she said later.)
So, naturally, of course, the kids would want to order from this place again, right? No? Well, that's what they decided to do, anyway.
Now, the first problem was what to order. While it was generally agreed that green olives were not a good idea, there was no agreement on virtually anything else. All I wanted was just plain cheese. I'm a boring person. Long Suffering Spouse will take sausage or pepperoni or green peppers, but not onions, licorice, ham and eggs or whatever it was that Hank and Older Daughter were talking about. Once I was assured that some portion of some pizza would be cheese only, I tuned the discussion out. Watching a Harry Potter movie for the 80th time was far preferable than watching Older Daughter struggle to make a decision.
Let's put it this way: I recall a discussion at Thanksgiving dinner in 2002. Older Daughter was then but a freshman in college, at the University of Illinois. She'd done from a high school of 350 or 400 girls to a college of 35,000 or 40,000. In high school, she'd had few schedule choices; in college, her choices were virtually unlimited. I asked her if her schedule was set yet. Everyone at the table assumed I was asking about her second semester schedule; Older Daughter and I both knew, however, that I was inquiring about her first semester schedule, the one that would end in just a week or two. "Almost," she said.
And this was without hormones, and shots and acupuncture and trying to buy a house besides.
Eventually, however, Older Daughter and her mother decided what to order -- but then Older Daughter could not figure out how to work the pizza joint's ordering system from her cell phone. She fiddled with it for what seemed like an eternity and then woke up Hank, who'd made the perfectly understandable decision to take a nap while the negotiations over toppings dragged on. She wanted him to place the order instead.
Hank was not pleased to be snatched from the arms of Morpheus.
In Hank's defense, I have to agree that naps are very important to me, too. I nap every chance I can get. I'd be napping now, only I have to write this post and prepare for an interview this afternoon. (OK, yes, I'm stalling on the interview prep by doing this post. Don't be such a pain.)
But, while I acknowledge that Hank had every right to be miffed at being prematurely awoken from his nap, it occurred to me, if not to him, that he was miffed at the woman who had just undergone hellish medical procedures in order to be able to carry his child. She wasn't functioning on all cylinders, true, but you'd think he'd make some allowances. Instead, he refused to place the order.
"They also have a phone," he said. "You could call them on the phone instead of placing the order online."
But she didn't want to call them on the phone; she wanted to place the order online and the site wasn't working on her phone. Hank gave her his. "Try this, then."
They must have bickered for another half hour before the order was eventually placed. I'm afraid I can't tell you if they did put the order in online or over the phone. I was verrrrry carefully not paying attention at this point.
Look -- yes, I am an attorney -- but, no, I don't particularly like conflict. I certainly don't like it in the home. Older Daughter, on the other hand, doesn't seem happy unless she's battling with someone. In this, she resembles my mother-in-law. Long Suffering Spouse and I have had a number of conversations about whether Abuela's home is getting to be too much for her. And it might be -- but we can't imagine her living with anyone either. It might technically be called an apartment in the suburbs but it would really be located in a state of perpetual conflict.
Older Daughter and I were alone in the living room at one point over the weekend, she on the couch, me still on that love seat (I was sitting or laying on that thing for 90% of the trip). Long Suffering Spouse had gone to the kitchen to chop up vegetables for a snack. My wife called out a question to her daughter, but I could see that Older Daughter was dozing, eyes closed and everything. I tried to answer in a stage whisper that she was sleeping -- when a sleepy voice from the couch interrupted: "I am not!"
As near as I can tell, Hank's no better. He'll pick at any scab he finds too.
Sometimes Long Suffering Spouse and I wonder how well these two really know each other. They don't seem as supportive of one another as we'd like, or in sync, or in tune, or whatever phrase you use in your experience. Hank knows that his wife can't lift anything consequential in these critical first few weeks, but after we'd gone home he refused to buy groceries. Later, though, he bought flowers and all was sweetness and light again.
Anyway, we got the pizza -- without green olives this time -- and, late as I thought it was, Long Suffering Spouse assured me (later) that this was at least two hours earlier than she'd been fed last time. "I think they were on their good behavior because you were there," she told me later when we were headed home. "That was their good behavior?" I asked.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
A visit to Indianapolis -- Part I
Sometimes, when I prepare these little essays, I want to share more of what's going on in my world with you -- "you" meaning the few readers I do have, as well as you, the potential readers that exist only in my fevered imagination -- but I am reluctant to do so lest I reveal too much and compromise my anonymity.
This weekend provides an example; I'd explain but that would defeat the purpose.
I can tell you that Long Suffering Spouse and I went to Indianapolis to visit Older Daughter and her husband, Hank. Older Daughter was just implanted again, and Long Suffering Spouse was planning to visit and see to it that Older Daughter really did rest. (Older Daughter is undergoing IVF treatment. If you're interested, you can catch up here and here -- feel free to read all seven parts if you really want.)
I was not planning to go. I thought I'd be at home with Younger Daughter and the pseudo-dog, Rodent. Rodent is the pocket-sized pooch owned by Oldest Son and his wife Abby (following the links from this post will tell you more than you ever wanted to know about Rodent). Oldest Son and his wife were in Vegas for an extended weekend and Younger Daughter was asked to dog-sit. Since Younger Daughter has no place of her own, and dogs -- even very small ones -- are frowned upon in her college dormitory, the Curmudgeon residence is always volunteered as the venue for the dog-sitting.
Not by me, you understand.
I had stuff I'd planned to do at home -- viz., the grass, the laundry, a post on my public blog, preparing for a speech on Monday evening, preparing for a cable appearance on Wednesday afternoon -- and we wouldn't ordinarily leave Younger Daughter home by herself, especially with the dog. There would really be nothing for me to do in Indianapolis except mope around. Long Suffering Spouse was planning to stay at the kids' apartment; I'd have wanted to stay at a hotel -- but that would have been inconsistent with my wife's goal of hovering to make sure her daughter stayed at rest. So the decision that we would go our separate ways this past weekend seemed settled and uncontroversial. But Long Suffering Spouse was enormously tired by the end of the week. I already forget why. So much is going on in our lives at this point that I'm having trouble keeping track. It may not have been any particular crisis; it may just have been the consequence of my wife's return to the classroom after Easter Break: We're both usually dead tired by Friday evening.
Anyway, Older Daughter and Younger Daughter were both concerned that Long Suffering Spouse would have difficulty making the drive by herself on Friday. I suggested that she stay home Friday and leave early on Saturday -- but that was vetoed. And by late Friday morning it had become apparent that I was going to have to go too.
I left the Teeny Tiny Law Office in mid-afternoon and Long Suffering Spouse and I started packing immediately. We had dinner at home, though, so we weren't able to leave until 6:30. We weren't moving fast.
And we only moved slower when we got on the Tollway. I know better than to try and drive through the city on a Friday evening -- the Kennedy delays can make forever seem like an eye-blink -- but there was an accident on I-294 and it took us a good hour to make a portion of the trip we can usually make in 10 minutes.
We heard from Younger Daughter en route. It seems a giant centipede ("furry" and "with stripes") had decided to show itself just after we left. I asked if the centipede ate Rodent; Younger Daughter was not amused. Although he had escaped the giant centipede, Rodent had begun barking, first at the front door, then the back door -- just little yip, yap, yip barks -- the kind that confirms for any experienced gang of house-burglars that herein lies easy pickins. Younger Daughter could not get the animal to stop. She'd looked out the windows but saw no gangs of any kind; nevertheless, she'd turned on every light in the house. (She'd already turned on most of them in response to the centipede. Younger Daughter had a spray bottle of bleach ready to confront that centipede should it reappear. Long Suffering Spouse counseled against this. "You'll only make it mad," she warned.)
We got to Indianapolis well after 11:00 p.m. local time. Hank poured me a tumbler of Irish whiskey to help me unwind from the drive. I don't think he minded too much because this gave him an excuse to join me. Then I had to wind my 6'2" frame into a 4' loveseat. (Oh, yes, we had to stay at the apartment, even with me along.) Long Suffering Spouse was on the full couch with Older Daughter -- who refused to toddle off to bed until long after Iwent to sleep passed out.
Saturday Hank and I went out -- I had a charge card bill to pay at Chase. Chase makes it impossible to pay a bill on line unless you give them a cell phone number so they can send you a phony "security code." Look: A security code is entirely stupid and pointless when someone is trying to pay a bill. First of all, I really don't care if some stranger wants to put some money toward my staggering Chase Card balance. I don't mind if you do. Why should there be a security code to discourage that? Second, I realize that the only reason Chase wants me to give over my cell phone number is so they can sell it and I can start getting sales calls on my cell phone. The bastards. They are never getting it from me.
One of the reasons our departure was delayed Friday was that I was trying to pay the stupid bill on line. I was trying to get Chase to send my unnecessary, unneeded and unwanted security code to an email account -- Chase says it provides this service -- but I sat waiting... and waiting... and waiting... and the email did not show up. Meanwhile, while waiting for Chase's email, the Chase site automatically logs off -- for my protection, of course. The thieves.
So Hank and I went out. Fortunately, there's a Chase by Hank's office and, even more fortunately, Hank needed to stop by his office anyway to scan some documents he and Older Daughter needed to send to their mortgage broker.
It's not enough, you see, that they're trying to get pregnant with this horribly invasive IVF process, with the shots and the pills and the acupuncture and the ovaries in overdrive and all that stuff -- Older Daughter and Hank have also decided that now is the time to buy a house. Well, their dog, Cork (more about him here) had been chewing holes in the carpeting in the apartment, so naturally the remedy for this would have to be to get the dog his own house with a backyard to play in.
Naturally.
While we were at Hank's office, Hank introduced me to one of his colleagues who was there doing a little extra work on a Saturday morning. Hank said, "This is my father-in-law," and the young man said hello. I said, "Yes, it's Hank's turn to watch me this morning."
The young man did not bat an eye.
Either he has no sense of humor -- or he took one look at me and found what I'd said all too plausible.
I'm hoping it's the former.
These errands alone were not enough, of course. Two men can not go out on a Saturday morning without returning with baked goods. This is a survival from prehistoric times. The cave women would want to chitchat, so they'd tell the menfolk to go out and find a mastodon or something for lunch. I think donuts and coffee cake are much more civilized, and also easier to carry.
So we ate and watched Harry Potter movies (Older Daughter wanted a 'film festival') and I missed Phillip Humber's perfect game.
I didn't know anything special was happening until Oldest Son texted me -- just one word: "HUMBER!!!"
I'd better get me some by-gosh grandchildren out of all this.
More on the Indianapolis trip tomorrow.
This weekend provides an example; I'd explain but that would defeat the purpose.
I can tell you that Long Suffering Spouse and I went to Indianapolis to visit Older Daughter and her husband, Hank. Older Daughter was just implanted again, and Long Suffering Spouse was planning to visit and see to it that Older Daughter really did rest. (Older Daughter is undergoing IVF treatment. If you're interested, you can catch up here and here -- feel free to read all seven parts if you really want.)
I was not planning to go. I thought I'd be at home with Younger Daughter and the pseudo-dog, Rodent. Rodent is the pocket-sized pooch owned by Oldest Son and his wife Abby (following the links from this post will tell you more than you ever wanted to know about Rodent). Oldest Son and his wife were in Vegas for an extended weekend and Younger Daughter was asked to dog-sit. Since Younger Daughter has no place of her own, and dogs -- even very small ones -- are frowned upon in her college dormitory, the Curmudgeon residence is always volunteered as the venue for the dog-sitting.
Not by me, you understand.
I had stuff I'd planned to do at home -- viz., the grass, the laundry, a post on my public blog, preparing for a speech on Monday evening, preparing for a cable appearance on Wednesday afternoon -- and we wouldn't ordinarily leave Younger Daughter home by herself, especially with the dog. There would really be nothing for me to do in Indianapolis except mope around. Long Suffering Spouse was planning to stay at the kids' apartment; I'd have wanted to stay at a hotel -- but that would have been inconsistent with my wife's goal of hovering to make sure her daughter stayed at rest. So the decision that we would go our separate ways this past weekend seemed settled and uncontroversial. But Long Suffering Spouse was enormously tired by the end of the week. I already forget why. So much is going on in our lives at this point that I'm having trouble keeping track. It may not have been any particular crisis; it may just have been the consequence of my wife's return to the classroom after Easter Break: We're both usually dead tired by Friday evening.
Anyway, Older Daughter and Younger Daughter were both concerned that Long Suffering Spouse would have difficulty making the drive by herself on Friday. I suggested that she stay home Friday and leave early on Saturday -- but that was vetoed. And by late Friday morning it had become apparent that I was going to have to go too.
I left the Teeny Tiny Law Office in mid-afternoon and Long Suffering Spouse and I started packing immediately. We had dinner at home, though, so we weren't able to leave until 6:30. We weren't moving fast.
And we only moved slower when we got on the Tollway. I know better than to try and drive through the city on a Friday evening -- the Kennedy delays can make forever seem like an eye-blink -- but there was an accident on I-294 and it took us a good hour to make a portion of the trip we can usually make in 10 minutes.
We heard from Younger Daughter en route. It seems a giant centipede ("furry" and "with stripes") had decided to show itself just after we left. I asked if the centipede ate Rodent; Younger Daughter was not amused. Although he had escaped the giant centipede, Rodent had begun barking, first at the front door, then the back door -- just little yip, yap, yip barks -- the kind that confirms for any experienced gang of house-burglars that herein lies easy pickins. Younger Daughter could not get the animal to stop. She'd looked out the windows but saw no gangs of any kind; nevertheless, she'd turned on every light in the house. (She'd already turned on most of them in response to the centipede. Younger Daughter had a spray bottle of bleach ready to confront that centipede should it reappear. Long Suffering Spouse counseled against this. "You'll only make it mad," she warned.)
We got to Indianapolis well after 11:00 p.m. local time. Hank poured me a tumbler of Irish whiskey to help me unwind from the drive. I don't think he minded too much because this gave him an excuse to join me. Then I had to wind my 6'2" frame into a 4' loveseat. (Oh, yes, we had to stay at the apartment, even with me along.) Long Suffering Spouse was on the full couch with Older Daughter -- who refused to toddle off to bed until long after I
Saturday Hank and I went out -- I had a charge card bill to pay at Chase. Chase makes it impossible to pay a bill on line unless you give them a cell phone number so they can send you a phony "security code." Look: A security code is entirely stupid and pointless when someone is trying to pay a bill. First of all, I really don't care if some stranger wants to put some money toward my staggering Chase Card balance. I don't mind if you do. Why should there be a security code to discourage that? Second, I realize that the only reason Chase wants me to give over my cell phone number is so they can sell it and I can start getting sales calls on my cell phone. The bastards. They are never getting it from me.
One of the reasons our departure was delayed Friday was that I was trying to pay the stupid bill on line. I was trying to get Chase to send my unnecessary, unneeded and unwanted security code to an email account -- Chase says it provides this service -- but I sat waiting... and waiting... and waiting... and the email did not show up. Meanwhile, while waiting for Chase's email, the Chase site automatically logs off -- for my protection, of course. The thieves.
So Hank and I went out. Fortunately, there's a Chase by Hank's office and, even more fortunately, Hank needed to stop by his office anyway to scan some documents he and Older Daughter needed to send to their mortgage broker.
It's not enough, you see, that they're trying to get pregnant with this horribly invasive IVF process, with the shots and the pills and the acupuncture and the ovaries in overdrive and all that stuff -- Older Daughter and Hank have also decided that now is the time to buy a house. Well, their dog, Cork (more about him here) had been chewing holes in the carpeting in the apartment, so naturally the remedy for this would have to be to get the dog his own house with a backyard to play in.
Naturally.
While we were at Hank's office, Hank introduced me to one of his colleagues who was there doing a little extra work on a Saturday morning. Hank said, "This is my father-in-law," and the young man said hello. I said, "Yes, it's Hank's turn to watch me this morning."
The young man did not bat an eye.
Either he has no sense of humor -- or he took one look at me and found what I'd said all too plausible.
I'm hoping it's the former.
These errands alone were not enough, of course. Two men can not go out on a Saturday morning without returning with baked goods. This is a survival from prehistoric times. The cave women would want to chitchat, so they'd tell the menfolk to go out and find a mastodon or something for lunch. I think donuts and coffee cake are much more civilized, and also easier to carry.
So we ate and watched Harry Potter movies (Older Daughter wanted a 'film festival') and I missed Phillip Humber's perfect game.
I didn't know anything special was happening until Oldest Son texted me -- just one word: "HUMBER!!!"
I'd better get me some by-gosh grandchildren out of all this.
More on the Indianapolis trip tomorrow.
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