Day 65- May 16, 2020

Day 65- May 16, 2020

Today was an exciting one.  First, we discovered that on the new app Jeff installed for our Apple TV, we could get new movies included.  This led to some very exciting shrieking because we could watch Scoob, the new Scooby Doo film.  I loved watching Scooby on Saturday mornings was a big part of childhood, and the girls discovering him and the Magical Mystery crew is super fun.  I ran around the house cleaning and organizing (it's pollening season, and things need to be clean) while they were happily distracted, but made sure to poke my head downstairs to see the film on our projector screen periodically.

The girls were happily cackling at the movie when I headed upstairs with a load of clean laundry, and went to check on our stimulus check once again via the internet.  There's an IRS website for this, but every time I check, it says the information doesn't match what they have on file.  I tried our address, and my mom's (since we had been living there when we filed our 2018 taxes), and neither worked.  Frustrated, I pulled out this year's taxes, and started going through the paperwork when I made a discovery.  The kind of discovery where your stomach drops out and you think how could I have been this stupid?  The accountant had inputted the address incorrectly.  It wasn't ours, or my mom's, it was a hybrid of the two (her town and the "Ave" part, and our street number and name.  A quick Google search revealed that it was actually an address, and I took a moment to compose myself before swearing- vehemently.

I typed in the address, and sure enough, the IRS website gave the encouraging message that "Your check was mailed to the address on file on May 8th".  For those of you keeping track, that was over a week ago, and mailed to strangers at an address that wasn't mine.  I immediately did two things- I emailed my accountant to ask what the heck I should do (and how to change my address), and then called the post office in town, hoping that perhaps they had held onto it, or had it returned.  The officer I spoke to was very kind, took my name and phone number, and promised to check with the postman who serviced that house to see if he had noticed it.

Then I took things a step further.  I completed a change of address form on USPS.com, so that if anything else from the IRS gets sent, it gets forwarded to me.  My phone dinged as I was completing it, and it was my accountant, telling me there is a form I needed to fill out and send in with the corrected information.  I searched the IRS website, found the form, and sought a phone number to call (I know, I know, it was futile).  Eventually, I found a number, but the message was that they weren't accepting calls right now (so convenient), and to try their online automated services.

Cue more vehement swearing.

I was racking my brain when a lightbulb went off.  I decided to see if social media could be used for good, and hopped onto the town moms' board.  I explained my situation, and asked if anyone knew who lived at the address in question.

Remarkably, within five minutes, I had a message from the administrator of the group, saying she'd found a person in the group who had that address (they need proof of residency to join the group, so I am assuming they keep an excel sheet of such things).  She had reached out to the woman, and would let me know if she heard anything.  I typed back immediately, texting my number and saying that if she could please pass it along, that would be a huge help, and thank-you so much for coming to my aid so quickly.

And truly, not five minutes after that exchange, my phone rang, and it was the woman who lived at that house.  She told me how she and her husband had been surprised to receive the stimulus check (it's in a very clearly marked envelope), but were worried about just returning it to the IRS, since they were pretty sure it would just end up in purgatory.  They were going to try the post office this week, but then she got the admin's message about me.

I am not ashamed to tell you I burst into tears.  Just at the thought of these people holding onto the check, in hopes of reuniting it with its rightful owner, was a kindness that I don't take lightly.  I told her how my husband is currently on unemployment, and that I'm a teacher, so money is tight.  Thank-you probably came out about fifteen or so times in our three minute conversation. She told me she would leave the envelope in a box on her porch, and I promised to be there in about ten minutes.

The newly carpeted living/dining room areas

When I arrived at her adorable ranch home, I put my face mask on, and practically skipped up the steps.  There was a ceramic squirrel guarding the box, and I gently picked him up and retrieved the envelope from within.  I waved happily at the house, and after hand-sanitizing, pulled out of the driveway and headed home.  I promptly deposited the check electronically through my bank's phone app, and went down to check on the girls.

They and their dad had decided to make a full morning of films (hey, it was Saturday morning after all) and followed up Scoob (two thumbs up) with Trolls: World Tour.  Jeff was tired and sore from all the work he's been doing prepping our friend's house for sale, and since carpet was being installed this morning, he was able to relax and watch the movie with the girls.

The movies was... interesting.  Pretty typical children's cartoons, singing and dancing, and of course, bodily function humor involving trolls pooping baked goods.  There were also many, many colors, and when a troll started floating by playing smooth jazz, Jeff and I looked at each other, communicating telepathically as only two people who have been together for a quarter century can.

WTF are we watching?  

I'm not quite sure- I mean, I could understand this being written DURING quarantine, or by someone on a lot of drugs...

Seriously though, did that troll just levitate while playing a hookah?

Pretty sure he did.  That, or I'm more out of it than I thought.  Maybe I need a full day off. 

Outdoor chess

By the time the trolls came together to harmonize through all the genres of music, there was much troll mythology explained, and much that frankly, I don't want to know.  It had been a long morning, and while the rest of the day would bring a ride to a friend's to pick up blue-filtered glasses (to try to prevent more ocular migraines in the future), outside chess with Jeff and the girls, and me talking Jeff into hooking up the trailer to our riding mower next time he mows the lawn so the girls could take rides, nothing could quite compare to the excitement of stimulus check adventures and crazy haired dolls that sing.  All in all, a pretty good Saturday.

Day 40- April 21, 2020

Day 40- April 21, 2020

40 days and 40 nights.  It's been a long time, and getting longer.

Today, I was ready to write about the thunderstorm that took place this morning, when the house shuddered with every clap and the girls ran into the greenhouse off the sunroom so that they could look up and see the water pouring down the plastic roof.  They squealed as the water drip dropped in from one section (it's not a permanent structure), and they tiptoed around the puddle.

I was prepping to say how wonderful it was this afternoon, when we got the whole Brownie troop onto Zoom, and had a big meeting where the girls were able to write and draw about their experiences being home with their families.  Most importantly, they got to just talk to their friends, and see their faces.  They miss each other, and it's hard for a nine-year-old to grasp this stuff (even a super-smart one like my daughter.

It was also a day where I practiced facepainting on the girls, at their request.  They love a show called Miraculous Ladybug, where the main characters "transform" into superheroes based on their "miraculouses" (basically, a little tchotchke).  They wanted to be transformed by their miraculouses, so we pulled out the facepaint I had bought for R.'s birthday two years ago, and I went to work making them into BeanieBoo-inspired penguin and reindeer superheroes.

But it's also a day where I had to break the news to my daughters that our tenants (who live in the apartment above our garage) lost their dog Jiggy today.  The girls had been excited to move home when we did so last summer because we got to come home.  But the added bonus was Jiggy, a 14 years young Jack Russel Terrier who loved to play fetch with E. in the yard and run around with R.  We told them at dinner, and E's reindeer makeup ran a lot.   They lost their dogs two years ago, within three weeks of each other as both succumbed to old age, so they understand to a degree, but it doesn't make it easier.

And then after dinner came the big blow- a mom friend of mine from my daughters' old school succumbed to cancer the other night, and her husband posted the news on Facebook.  Her children were in R. and E's classes, and she was one of the first people I met when we had moved in with my mom almost three years ago.  We had her and her family over to swim, and frequently ran into them on the playground and at soccer practices, since E. and her son play for the same club.  Our daughters played on the same softball team, and I occasionally drove them to or from, depending on how she was feeling (they lived around the corner).

I knew she had been undergoing treatment for a long time, but you always hope for a miracle, and it is a legitimate tragedy that this beautiful soul had to leave her family way too soon.  She was a fighter to the end, and her kids were always her first priority.  As I read the note, I looked at Jeff, and squeaked out for him to take the girls into the other room, while I ran to the bathroom and bawled.  When I had calmed down sufficiently, I told him what had happened, and we mutually agreed to hold off on telling the kids until morning.  It's going to be hard, because I don't have any words for this kind of a tragedy.  I don't know how to make sense of it myself, and the thought of her husband and children having to deal with this new reality at any time, let alone in isolation, is gut wrenching.

When you hear truly awful news, it puts everything else in perspective. I've heard people complaining about losing jobs and money, missing hanging out and all the other things that normally are priorities in life, but let's face it.  At the end of the day, as long as we are alive and able to be with our loved ones, we will find a way through.  Losing someone shines a very bright light on how grateful I am for the "simple" things I have, my husband next to me, my kids sleeping in their rooms.  I will grieve as best I can in these weird times, attending a virtual service for this incredible woman. And that fight that she displayed- the staunch resilience and love- that will live in on her kids, her husband, and all those who knew her.  We're all better for having had her in our lives.

Of Jeter and Pathology Reports and Miracles

I was lying in a bed in Newport, Rhode Island, flipping between a Yankees game and HGTV, while occasionally glancing out the window at the night sky, the moon, and the river running under the Newport Bridge.  It was close to midnight, and the family vacation to Jamestown and Newport was off to a brilliant start, with a condo on the water, views every morning while we ate waffles on the deck, and adventures galore.  The kids were content, there was a lot of laughter, and life was good.  I had my hand on my abdomen, and was rubbing about two inches below my belly button, where I had been sore for part of the day, when I felt the lump.

It was about an inch wide, and two inches long.

I have scar tissue from two c-sections, but those are around my scar, where my children were delivered.  This was higher, different- it felt rounder and disconnected.  In the dark, my husband sleeping soundly beside me, my children sharing a room down the hall, I had a moment of cold fear panic.

I've had those icicles before.  That stomach drops out, tingly lightheadedness.  I paused mid-breath.

I felt again.  It was there.

In the coming weeks, I would be diagnosed with a possible hernia, possible hematoma (bad bruise), and told to wait a month and come back for a check up.  My first question was are you sure?  Is there any chance it could be anything else- a tumor, something bad?   I didn't know this doctor, and he said "anything is possible, but it's unlikely.  It's like seeing a horse in the US.  You wouldn't assume it's a zebra, you would assume it's a horse because of where we are."  I immediately thought of Madagascar and zoos, but nodded my head, looked around (glimpsing at Sports Illustrated with Jeter's smiling face behind the doctor and the blinds on the windows), and agreed to come back in a few weeks.

The lump didn't go away, just got more sore, a little larger, and upon my return, I was then told potential endometriosis, and did I want to try a different form of birth control to see if it just went away on its own?  This came with the stipulation that if I did wait and see, that I would have a biopsy performed in office, "just to be safe".  With that or surgery as the only real options to definitively determine what was growing inside me, I went to my OB for a second opinion, and was told if it was an endometrioma (endometrial tissue growing outside the uterus), it was high for that, and it was possibly a fatty tumor instead.

At this point, the option of surgery seemed like the better option.  I have an aunt who survived endometrial cancer earlier this year, because she caught it early.  Her mother in law had ignored warning signs for close to a year, and passed a week after my aunt's hysterectomy.

I have two good friends who opted for mastectomies because of the gene for cancer and their personal family losses.  I know how important early intervention is if something is wrong, and how devastating it can be for misdiagnoses to float around for months (we still wonder if my aunt would be around had they immediately diagnosed lung cancer, instead of misdiagnosing various upper respiratory illnesses like bronchitis and pneumonia for six months).

I have two little girls. All I ever wanted was to be a mom, and be here for them as they grow up.  There's a lot that one wants in life, but I realized as I started to take everything into account against sobering reality that I need to simply be here, with them.  They are my life.  As I have spent the last several days recovering from surgery, they've alternated asking me "mommy, how's your belly?" and giving "gentle hugs".  The almost-four year old wants to be on my lap, so she climbs onto the bed first, then gingerly slides onto my legs, careful to avoid the pillow that is protecting my latest scar.  They are crazy little lunatics, with fits of giggles, emotions that run the gamut, and a particular affinity for drawing on the walls and floors with all things Crayola.  But they are mine, and I love them.  I want to see them get taller and discover sports. I want to see Riley dance in her first Irish Dancing competition, and Ella score a goal on the soccer field.  I want to read the first stories that they write, hold their hands through their first loves, take photos at their proms and graduations.  I want to be there when they have their own children.  I want to be there, period.

Waiting for pathology reports is terrifying.  The words "tumor" and "pathology" conjure up images that have become all too commonplace on television and in films.  I've lost people close to me to big words that I couldn't bring myself to say, but had running through my head for much of the last week.  Before I hit the recovery room, my doctor had told me "It was an endometrioma.  We'll go over the pathology results when I see you next week".

I was too nauseated from the anesthesia, too sore from the surgery, to do anything but moan in agreement.  But in my head, I was conscious enough to calculate that if I didn't hear from him before my office follow up, that was a bad thing.

The nurse, when I was being discharged, told me that the test results would be done in two or three days, by Thursday or Friday, and that the doctor was usually good about calling if that was the case.  Again, I calculated.

So I spent much of Thursday on pins and needles, my cell phone next to me as I lay in bed, unable to really hold a computer or focus on anything more than the chatter on the television.  I slept on and off, ate meekly, and tried to walk around to ease some of the soreness.  As night descended, I started tearing up whenever one of my daughters would come over to me, thinking "Please.  please.  I need to be here for them."   I stroked the little one's hair out of her face, held the big one's hand while we watched Despicable Me 2.

Derek Jeter was playing in his final home stand at Yankee Stadium.  The Giants were about to start a heated battle with the Washington Redskins to get out of the bottom of the NFC East.  I situated myself on the couch, under a blanket, while the kids ran around the downstairs in a big circular loop.  Peeking at my phone for the inevitable Facebook updates, I saw a mail alert that I had a message from my OB.

I let out a breath.  I looked around, at the clock on the mantle with the roman numerals, which dictated that it was quarter of eight; at the little face laughing as she lapped the fireplace and the sleeping dogs; at the crowd on the television chanting a baseball god's name.  I struggled to lift myself up off the leather, careful to use my arms and my legs, and avoid my core muscles.  Despite my efforts, I could still feel the tugging and soreness, especially where the incision was.  I hunched over as I shuffled across the floor, neanderthal in my motions, as I knew standing upright would increase the pain level.  Reaching the front hallway, I gingerly lowered myself to the steps, and dialed for the message, praying on a loop please let me be okay…please let me be okay.

 "Hello Kristen, it's Dr. _______.  We got the results of the pathology test, and it was endometriosis, so I'm glad you had it taken out.  If you have any questions…"

A wave of relief rushed my body.  If he was leaving a message, this was good.  In the morning, I would call the office, and officially speak to someone who confirmed that, yes, it was only endometriosis.  I choked up when I tried to say "thank you", and she kindly told me she understood, and was happy for me.  When you've lost people close to you, you don't discuss the possibilities until after you know you are okay, after you know the results are in your favor.  Only then can you let the tears flow, and the what-if's be spoken.  If you speak them too soon, you are afraid they may go from hypothetical to real.

Waddling back to the couch, I told my husband the news, while he squeezed my hand.  Giving my little ones kisses and hugs, I could breath again.  I remembered my angels in heaven, Dad, who had taken me to my first Yankee's game, who had sat next to me in Box 39, Row 8, when the Yankees outlasted the Braves in Game 6 of the 1996 world series.  I said a silent thank you to him and the higher powers above me for giving me this chance to continue.  On the television, Derek Jeter hit an RBI fielder's choice and we readied the kids for bed.  I gave each an extra squeeze, told them I loved them, while Jeff herded them up the stairs, while their stuffed lambs and feety pajamas skimmed the carpet.

I dialed my mom, told her the news.  Said I would call in the morning after officially talking to the doctor, but all looked good.  I also asked if she was watching the Yankees, and she said no, Grey's Anatomy.  I asked how we were related, and she chuckled.

Above my head, I could hear the little ones running around, pattering against the carpet instead of remaining tucked in their beds.  On the screen, I was riveted with every other baseball fan by Jeter's last stand.  In the midst of sport and the end of an era, I was gently remembering that I can continue.  When Robinson blew the save, and I realized Jeter would receive one final at bat, I turned to my husband and said "I hope this is karma for him being a good person.  That, or someone in the Yankees sold their soul for this one."

I leaned back, knowing what was coming.  This is the night of new beginnings, the night I'll remember for knowing I was going to be allowed to stay in the game, and the night Jeter did the only imaginable thing he could, and pulled one more miracle out of his #2 hat.  In the midst of the eruption of joy on the screen, the cheering in my living room with my husband, I was simply glad to be a part of it.  Walt Whitman once said "Happiness, not in another place, but this place, not for another hour, but this hour."      It's simply to live, to breath, to be that is the goal.  Happiness is recognizing it.

CHRIS PEDOTA/STAFF PHOTOGRAPHER

http://www.northjersey.com/sports/klapisch-derek-jeter-a-hero-to-the-end-1.1096807

Laughter Makes The Best Memories

There are times, as a parent, when you have to decide whether to remove your child from a pile of parmesan cheese she's dumped all over the glass table, her pasta, and herself, or pick up a camera.  Tonight was one of those moments, and I, I chose the latter.

More and more, as time goes on, I find myself choosing to laugh and grab my Canon, instead of panicking and grabbing a sponge (sorry, mom).

And it's not just about messes.  It's in the red minivan, when my husband turns on "500 Miles" by the Proclaimers, and we belt out the lyrics for the 8th time, while our 2 year old yells "AGAIN" in the back seat.  It's allowing my bathroom to turn into the Splash Zone from Sea World during bath time.  It's singing a round of "Row Row Row Your Boat" for the kids with The Aristocrats after rehearsal instead of pushing bed time.

My kids are only 2 and a half, and 1, but I'm already realizing how quickly time passes, and how precious these little moments with them are.  Sitting on a deck, in the glow of citronella candles the other day,  I was trying to explain to an old friend how much I love writing this blog, and teaching a class in writing memoirs, because they allow reflection on the moments that have shaped me as a person.  It means putting down on paper (or computer, as I'm a much faster typist and have horrendous handwriting) the parts of life that have made me who I am.

Maybe it's because I lost my dad when I was a teenager, and missed out on hearing his stories, or maybe it's just because I'm a nostalgic sap with a ridiculous memory, but I enjoy reminiscing.  I can go back in my head and smell the grass during a rainstorm when I was 19, and how "She Talks To Angels" was stuck in my head (the inspiration behind a number of heartwrenchingly mediocre poems), or taste the zeppoles my great-grandmother made, covered in honey and powdered sugar.  I can recall, with astute clarity, conversations from 15 years ago, and what song was on the radio when they happened.

What I'm realizing more and more is that these stories also shape the people around me- especially my children.  Laughter leads to the best recollections, and I am trying to give my children as many laughing memories as I can.  So when a backyard wiffle ball game takes a brief hiatus for a chorus of the ABC's, I'll gladly join in.  My daughters may not remember the center fielder waving his arms to conduct the rest of us, and that they were standing, clapping their hands and giggling in the waning sunlight, but I will, and I'll be sure to tell them all about it.