Singing

I love singing.

I mean, don't get me wrong - I'm not great at it.  I'm just kind of okay.  I can mostly stay on key, I don't normally sound like nails on a chalkboard, and if you hold a single note for 5 or 6 seconds straight, I can even find harmony. Sort of.

For the record, in my next life I'm going to have a voice like Julie London, or maybe Ella Fitzgerald, or Etta James - all smoky and sultry, and come-hithery.

In fact, since the majority of you will never actually hear me sing.. can you just imagine I sound like them? Please?  And in this imaginary daydream, can I be wearing some kind of evening gown, and I'm all draping myself over the back of my couch, crooning some jazzy thing, and I'm holding a drink in my hand, and it's not sloshing over the side, because that's just how cool I am?

Thanks.

Anyways, back to singing.  I love to sing, and one of the things I was most looking forward to was singing to my boys as they got older.

I could just see it - I'd sing them soft little lullabies, and eventually they'd get old enough to sing along with me, and we'd just totally bond....

I just remembered right now I've already written a blog post about what happens when I try to sing with my kids.

That video?  It's still like that.  I'll start bursting out into song - REAL song, not loud, goofy Rickrolling -  and my beloved offspring will do everything they can to make me stop.  "Mama?  No singing.  Please.  STOP.  STOP.  NO SINGING.  NO, I NOT WANT TO SING WITH YOU.  NO, I DON'T WANT YOU TO SING.  NO SINGING, PLEASE."

I'd be insulted, but they think Carly Rae Jepsen is better than Etta James, so I don't really trust their musical taste.

Anyways, this brings me back to this afternoon.  The boys went down for a nap, and The Bean was studying for the last section of his CPA exam (woot!  You're gonna do great, babe!), so I snuck down to the barn for a little quiet time with Caspian.

The truth is, I don't get much quiet time with Caspian.  I know this is going to come as a shock, but it's actually not very relaxing, trying to clean and care for a horse while chasing after two hyperactive little boys.  It's better than the alternative of not owning a horse, but still.  Trips to the barn aren't quite as soothing to my soul as they used to be.

To throw another log on the fire, up until a couple of weeks ago, I was really having problems bonding with Caspian.  Oh, that doesn't mean I don't really enjoy my time with him, and he's an awesome horse - but he's no goofy, puppy-dog gelding.

(Spoiler:  Last month we had an unbelievably awesome breakthrough that I'm planning on blogging about later.)

He's an awesome horse, gorgeous to look at, wonderful to ride, sound, steady, sane... but for the most part, while he'll stand for you to hold him, or love on him, or even hug his head, his heart really isn't in it.

Except....

After our ride today I had him in the cross ties in the barn aisle way so I could untack him and brush him down.  He's starting to shed, and it's actually been kind of amusing watching him try to remain stoic and "manly" when I scratch his itchy spots (another spoiler:  He totally can't.  I win every time.)

I'd finished everything and was getting ready to put his lead rope back on to lead him to the stall, when I felt him lean in towards me.

The thing is, with Caspian, his friendship offerings are very quiet.  If you aren't desperate for them, like I have been, you'd probably miss it - but the barn was quiet, and I was moving slow and quiet, and I felt it.

He's so good - so very good, with the boys, with their craziness, with my fumblings, with everything - that I've been trying to respect his desire to not be pawed on.  I mean, I want to hang all over my horse, and scratch under his chin, and play with his lips, and kiss him on the soft part of his nose..... but he would prefer that I don't.  He'll let me - but that's just it.  He'll let me, because he's nice, not because he likes it.  And since he gives me everything I ask for, and more... it seems like the least I can do is not force my neediness on him.

The thing is, ever since I made that decision and quit trying to force him to be something he's not, he's been relaxing more and more.  And this afternoon, as he leaned towards me that infinitesimal amount, it felt like such a gift.

I stood there beside him, leaning my forehead on his strong neck, right behind his head.  With Jubilee, I used to lean in the hollow of his withers, but with Caspian, it's the dip where his neck meets his head.  And I leaned there, ignoring the way his shedding hairs were starting to stick to my chapstick, and I felt him enjoy me being there.

We both just stood there, motionless for awhile, while I reached under his jaw with my free hand so I could cup the other side of his face and scratch his cheek.  And then, I'm not really sure why, I started to sing.

I was singing very, very softly, mostly because for all that I felt alone, I knew that someone could come into the barn aisle at any moment, and it felt like such a personal moment that I didn't want to share it - I wanted to be able to hide it if they did see, and just pretend I was grooming him, or something.

But the thing is - when I started to sing... Caspian leaned into me heavier.  His head dropped, and his neck curled slightly around me... and as I stood there, with the rain pouring hard on the tin roof of the barn, and my finger curling through the bristly hair of his cheek, I felt my horse listening to my song.

His head dropped even further, and his breathing became very soft, and I watched, amazed, as his eyelid fluttered lower and lower, until finally, it closed.

And that, my dear blog friends, is why I'm selling my children so I can spend more time with my horse.  Because he lets me sing him to sleep.

And, also, because he's better looking than they are. Hopefully by the time they get old enough to search the internet, this post where I admit that will be so far buried that they'll never find it.

It's all my fault, really

You don't mock Murphy's Law.

If there's anything I learned this week, it's that you. Do. Not. Mock. Murphy's Law.

Monday night I wrote this on my Facebook wall:

And you know what?  I did find some cheap lights at Walmart.  They looked great on the tree after The Bean put them up, but by the time I decided to go out and put the porch lights up, I was just too tired. It'd been a long day, I was feeling a little wrung out, and to top it all off I had some cramps.

I decided to put it off until the next morning.  Sure, the boys would watch me hanging them and might get ideas about crawling around on our porch in unsafe ways.... but I really did have some bad cramps.  They'd started earlier in the afternoon and had been getting steadily worse.  I almost never suffer from those, so why not lay about on the couch with a favorite old book and feel sorry for myself?  It seemed like a good plan.

Eventually the Bean dragged me to bed.  I got in bed beside him, curling up, and tried to drift off to sleep.

Long after his breathing had deepened and he'd joined the land of sleepers, I lay beside him, completely awake, curling up around my crampy stomach. I just couldn't get comfortable, no matter which way I lay.  It was a shame, too, because I was really exhausted and felt like I could really use a good night's sleep.

I tossed.  I turned.  I tried curling up.  I tried laying flat.  Nothing helped.  Was it cramps, or was it indigestion?  Maybe gas?

I just get sexier with every passing year, don't I?

Anyways, at about 4 am, I gave up sleeping and decided to try sitting up on the couch.  I found an old, unopened bottle of Pepto Bismol and took some.  It helped a little bit - the cramping went away, but after about ten minutes I felt that familiar prickling on my skin.

After two pregnancies I knew exactly what that meant, so I calmly hunted around the couch cushions for a scrunchy, went to the kitchen to get some some tissues so they'd be ready to blow my nose, and walked serenely over to the toilet, arriving at just the perfect moment to puke without any pausing. 

If there's one good thing about having suffered from such bad morning sickness with the DragonMonkey and the Squid, it's that it's made me the Michael Jordan of puking.  I've got the timing down flat - I dare anyone to do it with more finesse.

"You got a stomach bug?" I heard the Bean call from the bedroom.  His alarm had already gone off - he'd come home early the night before to celebrate decorating the Christmas tree with us, so he was leaving early to work to make up for lost time. 

I admired the festively pink color I'd just reproduced into the toilet (seriously - it's even prettier than Skittles.  If you've got to puke, Pepto Bismol is the way to go), rinsed my mouth, and crawled back into bed beside him. 

"No - I don't know what's wrong.  My stomach really hurts.  Do you... do you have to go in early today?"

"I do."

"Well, since my cell is broken, can you leave yours with me?"

"Sure."

The Bean got showered and gave me a kiss on the head, and told me to take it easy, and off he went.

I dozed until the boys got up, but I was still feeling really crappy.  These were obviously the worse gas cramps in the history of all mankind.

I let the boys tear the house down around me until about 10 - then started to get them ready to go to a friend's house. I was supposed to be there at 10:30, but when 10:45 hit and I wasn't even in the car because I felt so icky, I decided enough was enough. 

I'd puked.  I was in pain.  The pain was mostly upper stomach, but if I pressed down on my appendix area, the rebound pain was terrible. 

On the one hand, we have crappy insurance.  Oh, it kicks in, but not for several thousands of dollars, and then only it only partially covers it.

On the other hand - dude.  Burst appendix.  Death.

Besides - I had been chatting with Mugwump all morning on Facebook, and she'd practically yelled at me for not going to the hospital yet. 

What would you do if it were your boys, or Caspian, or The Bean?
Simple - I'd take them to the doctor.
THEN WHY AREN'T YOU ALREADY THERE? 

I dropped my boys off at a local daycare and made my way over to Urgent Care.  As I shuffled down the extremely long hallway to the lab area, I realized that it might be more serious than just gas - maybe it actually was appendicitis? I mean, I'd never heard of gas pains keeping you hunched over and shuffling like Igor.

I asked the lab, but no, they didn't have the necessary equipment to diagnose appendicitis, so I shuffled back to my car, grabbed a piece of gum to keep the nausea down, and headed off to downtown Portland.  I left a message on The Bean's work phone that I was heading in, and started down the road. 

We live about forty minutes outside of the heart of the city, so by the time I got there, I wasn't feeling very well at all. Like, at ALL.  I found the ER, but couldn't find any parking there.  I circled around the block, cruising at about 10 miles per hour because I couldn't trust my reaction times faster than that.

In retrospect - dude.  I make dumb decisions when I'm not feeling well.  If I couldn't drive faster than 10 miles per hour, I probably shouldn't have been driving at all.... but somehow, it made sense to me at the time.

I finally found parking about a block and a half away from the hospital... but when I pulled in, I took one look at that block and a half walk I would have to walk- even IF I found a parking spot near the entrance, and I just felt defeated. I couldn't do it - even if it was only two blocks.  I just couldn't walk that far.

I turned my car in the world's slowest illegal u-turn and circled back around the hospital.  And then I saw it:

Valet Parking.

I could have cried - it was so perfect.  If ever there was a moment for Valet parking, this was it.

I pulled my little Scion up to the curb and slowly gathered my purse and wallet, and began edging my way out of the car.

"Hi there!  Are your keys in the car?  What's your first name?"  The valet attendant was all smiles and sunshine - perfect for a valet attendant, but just grating to the nerves to someone who was feeling sick.

Death.  I am death warmed over.  Quit your stupid cheerfulness.  "Becky.  It's Becky.  Is this the ER?"

"Nope!"  He grinned a huge, disturbingly cheerful smile at me.  "The ER is over that way - you just go around the edge of this block, down two sets of stairs, and over the...."

I tuned him out.  It was... it was just too much.  Too far.  He might as well have been describing how to get to the moon.  I'd held it together through the drive to the hospital, and I was so close, I was so close to the ER, but I was just never gonna make it.......

I burst into tears.

"Oh my gosh, are you okay?"

I burst into tears even harder.

I'm telling you - these were magnificent tears.  It was like that scene on Alice and Wonderland where she's a giant, and she cries really hard, and fills up the entire room with the tears that are catapulting themselves out of the corner of her eyes?  It was just like that.

"Oh.  Oh my gosh.  Oh, oh, geez.  Do you need a wheelchair?  Oh, my gosh.  Are you okay?"  he sounded genuinely horrified.  I felt guilty for making a scene, so I tried to mop my face with the back of my arm.

"A wheel chair would be nice...."

By the time I'd gotten checked in The Bean had found my hospital and joined me - I think my pitiful sounding message I left while the guy wheeled me in might have worried him a bit.

It took almost two hours for them to get me to the CT - and in that time the pain went from bad to really bad.  I didn't realize how bad it was until I was banging my head on the side of the hospital bed and biting my knuckle to keep from making noise.  It was about that time I quit worrying that I was "wasting" our Christmas money with an unnecessary trip to the ER.  

The doctor finally made it in to ask a few questions and do a physical assessment. 

"I need to make sure this isn't an internal problem, so I'm going to give you a quick pelvic and make sure I can't recreate this pain from the inside."  She slapped on a pair of gloves, asked me to scoot to the edge of the bed... and ladies and gentlemen, I don't think I've ever seen The Bean move that fast.  One second he was sitting at the foot of my hospital bed, and the next moment he'd disappeared behind the head of my bed, resolutely staring the opposite direction. It was like magic - I didn't even know he had moves like that.

The exam was mercifully brief, and at the end she did offer some pain medications.  The nurse came back in with morphine - and I know junkies all over the world are facepalming, but I took as little as I could.  I hate the way morphine makes me feel - it's as if all the air in my lungs is too dense, and too heavy, and I'm going to forget how to breathe. 

Four milligrams later, the pain finally got to the point where I felt like I could think again.  No surprise, the CT came back positive for an inflamed appendix, so they ushered me up to surgery. 

The staff up there was genuinely sweet and reassuring - they kept repeating themselves, and talking in calm, soothing tones, as if I were a horse about to bolt.  I finally had to be blunt with them, "Look.  I'm not nervous at all.  You guys do what you need to do to make my stomach feel better - I honestly don't care if nurse number one is going to exchange places with nurse number two during recovery.  Seriously." 

I meant it, too.  If they had told me they wanted to get naked and dance the cha-cha around the room -  that a bunch of naked, dancing medical personnel would magically make my stomach quit hurting, even for a little bit...I was all down for it.  Jiggle those jiggly bits, people.  Or don't jiggle.  Give me an appendectomy, or cut me into little tiny ribbons.  I don't care.  Just give me a break from the pain.

Surgery took a bit longer than expected - closer to two hours, but when I woke up I felt like a million bucks.  Apparently my appendix had actually been leaking for some time, and (this is a direct quote from the surgical team when they made rounds the next morning) - "When we opened you up there was a lot of pus - your entire pelvic cavity was filled with pus and green infectious liquid, and the whole thing looked gangrenous."

I sat there on the bed, trying to think what I was supposed to say in response, but what the heck are you supposed to say to that?  "Oh.  Well.  That sounds really sexy."  

One of the medical students laughed, but stifled it almost immediately when the head surgeon didn't even crack a smile.

"Well," said Mr. No-Nonsense, "We flushed it out.  It smelled really bad, but we were able to get it all out."

"Oh.  Uh... I'm sorry?"  But seriously - why did he wait for a response?  What the heck am I supposed to say?  Dear Abby never gave advice on the proper way to say "I'm sorry you had to smell my gangrenous pelvic cavity pus".  So sue me.

Anyways - miraculously, I never spiked a fever, and after an extra few doses of hospital antibiotics, they sent me home on Wednesday afternoon. 

All of this to say:

#1:  I'm really, really lucky.  Appendicitis doesn't always present with a painful lower right quadrant of the stomach, fever, and lots of vomiting. Until the pain got so bad I couldn't see straight, it felt very similar to gas pains.  I'm just amazed at my wonderful immune system.  It may attack my joints whenever I feel stressed, but I had an entire body filled with pus, and I didn't get the least bit septic.  Go, body, go.

#2:  This is why you still haven't gotten your darn clinic post.  Although, in better news, I am more than 50,000 words through the rough draft of my book and one appendix lighter.  So there's that.

#3:  Except for a bowl of oatmeal, one piece of pizza (it's the only thing that looked semi-appetizing), and one bowl of mashed potatoes, I didn't eat between Monday night and this morning... and I gained 7 pounds.  Dude.  Who even does that?  I know it's supposedly from the IV, and water retention from the meds, yadda yadda...

Dude.  I gained 7 pounds from a bowl of oatmeal and a slice of pizza and a small bowl of mashed potatoes.  That's, like, against the laws of physics.

Anyways, how are all of you doing?

PS:  Here's a picture of an angry appendix. This is kind of what I imagine mine looked like before they clipped it off, put it in a plastic bag, and sucked it out of my belly button (hey, man, if I have to have that mental image in my head, you do too.  Sorry.)