Grandma

4 Mar

I said goodbye to my Grandma on Sunday. Mom called to say we should come, so I did, and I brought my brother with me. We sat in her room, we talked. We talked about how sunny it was that day, how hot it was in her room, we talked about nothing. I watched her. I thought about how much she didn’t look like my Grandma anymore. I watched as her body struggled to breathe. Machines sustaining her. They tell me she was comfortable, I hope that’s true. She didn’t move or speak, her eyes stayed closed.

My Mom and Grandpa left. My aunts left. Laird and I sat there, and talked about nothing. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to be the one who left her alone. So we sat. When we decided to go I didn’t know what to do, Laird suggested I say bye. It made sense, though didn’t feel like enough. Nothing feels like enough. How do you…What do you say in that moment? I knew nothing I said or did would be the right thing. I put my hand on her arm, and said goodbye. I had nothing else, I could think of no other words. I turned around and stepped away. I didn’t want to cry in front of her. I didn’t want to cry at all. “I don’t want to do this”. “Just, turn it off?” Laird asked, suggested maybe.

That’s how I’ve spent my days since Mom called Tuesday morning to say she was gone. I’ve been turning it off. Except when I can’t. Like in the morning before the kids get up, or when I’m driving, or watching them skate, or standing in my closet putting away laundry. Those times I can’t turn it off. At night, at night I really can’t it stop. The flood of words, the burning in my throat. It doesn’t feel so easy to make it stop in the dark, when it’s quiet, when my mind has nothing to stop it from going there.

I find myself fighting, searching for the words. I want to be able to describe her. To say who she is, who she was. I get stuck thinking I don’t know. She was something different to everyone. I realized this more than ever watching my Grandpa brush her hair and speak soothingly to her while she was in the hospital. She is the love of his life. They should have celebrated their sixtieth anniversary this year. After all that time he’d sit beside her and hold her hand while they talked. She was so much to so many people. I can’t know all of that.

What I do know is what I think of when I think of her. I think of her big, warm hugs, her laugh, she was always quick to laugh and she loved it. Her humor, we had to laugh with her, she made sure of that. I think of peanut butter snowballs, thumbprint cookies, her cherry cheese cake, the most amazing turkey dressing there has ever been. Her always perfectly done hair and her red lips. I remember her gardens, the huge one full of vegetables, and berries, huge raspberry bushes that she’d walk right into to get the best berries which I’d try my best not to eat carrying them into the house. All of her flower beds and all the plants lining her windows in the house. I can hear her calling my Grandpa, from downstairs, or in the garage, or outside, “Reg!” It was dinner time or I wanted him for something, or she wanted him to tell me a story or some detail she couldn’t remember. His mind is a steel trap. I remember her stubbornness, not so much because I saw it, but because I knew we shared it. I remember her hugs.

When the hospital would call and say it was time, we would all go. And even in those times sitting there with her you couldn’t get anything past her. A joke or a silly remark we thought she didn’t hear. Her quick wit was still there, and her laugh. Every time though she would prove them wrong. She’d turn it around, she wasn’t going quietly. I’m not sure she did anything quietly.

She was the biggest personality in the room, she loved to talk and laugh. She loved to be with the people she loved. And she loved us fiercely. I was never uncertain of that.

Tomorrow she is to be laid in her final resting place. I know she’s ready, she fought long and hard. The worst is for the rest of us. The ones saying goodbye. All I can do is remember, hang on to her voice in my mind. And most of all, her hugs, I will remember her big, warm, you-know-she-means-it hugs. I love her, and I miss her. But I am so thankful to have had her as my Grandma.

 

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Working Woman

23 May

Since the weeks leading up to Bella’s birth I had been a stay at home Mom. My days were filled with housework, errands, kids and lots of little mindless tasks. It was not easy, but it was perfect. I watched them grow and change, I was here for anything they needed, I loved that time.

It’s gone now. Those breezy days of feeling like I might pull my hair out if I didn’t get to speak to at least one grown up. Keeping strangers on the phone when making appointments or ordering stuff. Those poor people, I’m sure I wasn’t the only Mama who told them EVERYTHING she was thinking about just to keep the adult conversation going.

Clearly I have an assortment of feelings about my time at home. I would never change it, if we ever had more (which we are SO NOT) I would do it again.

Now though, now I am a working woman again.

This new life is crazy busy and the things that slip past my attention are growing in numbers. I dove in head first, no floaties. Every day I get them on the bus and head to work, every day I try to find a free second to orchestrate all the things I used to have all the time in the world to manage, every day I suddenly notice the time and pack up and race off to this appointment, then that store, then to the kids before the after school program ends. I now remember why people get excited for Friday, and the weekend. Why stats and holidays are a big deal. How precious my time with my babies is, so much more now that I see them so much less.

The house is always waiting for my attention, always needing to be tidied, swept, scrubbed. It will keep waiting. The time I have at home now is for my kids, my husband, and for me. The dishes really can wait, the laundry is not going anywhere.

The other day Logan asked Scott when he would be able to see him more. His Dad explained to him that the reason we can have our home, stuff, food, activities and everything else is that Daddy works. Logan wondered when we would have enough money that he would get to see his Dad more. This breaks my heart, my boy is missing his Dad, and his Dad misses him, infinitely.  I would love to be able to offer him a date, a time, some idea of when we will all be able to spend more time together. I wish I could, but I can’t. What I can make sure he has is all of the attention I can give him when we are together. What we can offer is fun, laughter, cuddles, LOVE every moment we’re not apart.

I’m working, Scott is working. Our babies are in school. Our lives are busy.

The dishes will wait. We love our wrinkled t-shirts.

We will play and read. Sing and dance. We will love every moment. This woman will work for that.

Are You Raising a Douchebag?

25 Jul

I saw a picture on facebook today (pause for gasp).

No seriously, it happened. Anyway, it was a kid, clearly a shithead kid. It asked, “Are you raising a douchebag?” and pointed out that “Your indulgent parenting is spawning a generation of hipster brats.”

I think this picture is right. Yeah, someone somewhere on the internet got it right.

I have a problem with being indulgent with my offspring. I want them to have everything their little baby hearts desire, then SHOCK they act like jerks when they don’t get their way. So now I’m working on this whole giving them everything illness I have. It’s tough, and sometimes I say no to something ’cause I think I should be saying no more often than I realize I could have said yes in that case and nothing would have exploded. It’s a work in progress.

Now to the point of my rambling. As a parent I know it is my job to help in the shaping of the people my spawn turn out to be. Hopefully guiding them down a path of goodness and away from shitheadedness. What about all those jerk adults out there though? Hey person non-specific standing in front of the mall/restaurant/kids play area surrounding yourself in a cloud of death that I now have the option of dragging my kids through or using another entrance and hoping another one of your kind isn’t there? Go to hell! Yeah, that’s right. You choose to be a smoker, that’s a bad choice, go make your bad choice away from those of us without wishes of stained teeth, foul odours and untimely deaths.

Those people make me mad…can you tell?

There are so many adults making horrible choices, sometimes they are me. Sometimes they are the people in my life. Those bad choice may be as simple (and regular) as not thinking before speaking, or as all consuming as addiction. It’s always happening around me. And as I am trying to mold my kidlets into good people I wonder about how to best handle all the bad stuff so that it will have either no negative impact or maybe even sometimes a good impact (by the way of lessons to be learned). I recognize and sometimes SOMETIMES accept that I cannot change the people around me or stop them from making poor decisions. What I am not too confident about is how to manage those people in relation to my babes. We know that when kids are being bullied in school doing nothing is comparable to endorsing the bully’s behaviour. So, should I try to say or do something about bad behaviours so the kiddos see that I do not support it and am trying to have a positive impact on their world? OR knowing that those choices are not mine to make and only the people making them have the ability to make better ones do I simply not include those bad choice makers in the circle of people my family hangs out with? Standing idly by as my children witness people inflicting harm on themselves or others does not fall into the category of acceptable for me. Not only could that tell them that I am OK with whatever is happening but also that I am willing to expose them to bad shit…better words are not currently available.

I could see how some may say I’m thinking too much about this. And I SO see how my need to control is impacting my train of thought here…but what is a mama bear to do trying to raise her cubs in a world full of assholes?

Chatterbox

4 May

Bella was a serious baby. That is what I said when people would coo and smile at her and she would stare back at them. Face unmoving, expression the same, if not slightly annoyed looking. That’s not to say she never smiled or was unhappy. She would certainly giggle and was very able to engage. Most of her time was spent looking very, well, serious.

If you met her now you would strongly doubt my ability to recall past events. Not only will she smile at you, if you so much as make eye contact you are getting an earful. That child can talk, and talk, and talk. Yes, yes insert chuckle here. She is, with absolute certainty, her mother’s daughter.

Lying awake last night I got to thinking about my previously serious girl. And I think I’ve solved it, the mystery of those glaring eyes. That look that said she had you figured out. She was known to give THE look. You know that unimpressed woman, irritated girlfriend, frustrated Mama look. She would stare you down, my girl had THE look down before her first birthday. I believe I now know why. She wanted to tell us what she saw. What she heard. What she knew. She was aching to share her thoughts with us, and she was downright pissed that she couldn’t get the words out.

She has so much to say. So many observations, questions and even more corrections (yes another chuckle here, I know me to a T). “Bella could you grab your jacket please?” “Do you mean coat Mama?” Oops yes I meant coat. “Bell where is that pink ball?” “Mom, its orange” If her sneeze is not immediately met with a “Bless you Bell” she will remind me, promptly.

That’s my little lady. She knows what she wants, and how she wants it. And there is no way you can escape her telling you EVERY SINGLE thought she has.

Hook, Line…

4 May

Did your school have those round, grey rocks in the playground? The ones that were perpetually covered in a very fine dust that got on everything? When you jumped off the swing and landed with your hands in them you would fine lots of small grey circles on your hands, and if you touched your clothing you would have white hand prints all over you. Mine did. I’m not sure if Logan’s does though.

Walking up the driveway after school one day this week his hat was covered in white smudges. The ones I feel I had seen so many times in my elementary school days. I asked him how his hat got so dirty. “Bullies throwing mud again”. Odd, I thought. Mud doesn’t leave a powdery residue. Thrown mud wouldn’t leave smudges. I decided he wasn’t telling the truth. I assumed because he didn’t want to get in trouble for getting his hat dirty. It’s his special hat, the one he earned when he got up on stage in front of his entire school and let a stranger shave his head at the Cops for Cancer: Pedal for Hope assembly. He’s four, that’s a big deal.

Hats can be used for digging, for carrying, for fanning, for catching. I’m sure there is a myriad of uses my son could find for a hat. I’m also sure that a small pile of those uses could result in the smudging all over it. I don’t give him trouble for playing in the dirt generally, you know unless a mud puddle is attacked while we are walking towards the van to go somewhere special, he’s a kid and I’m cool with that. I don’t see why he wouldn’t tell me the real reason his hat is covered in that fine dust.

This is not the first time I’ve heard about bullies at school. And on some occasions I have sought out a conversation with the teacher to explore further. These kids are smart though. They hear us tossing words like bully around in a very serious manner. They know it’s a big deal and that we are working to keep bullying out of their lives. I think he’s deduced that ‘bully’ is a hot button. He knows that word will trigger a reaction. The things they learn in school. Not long after he started he was telling me that he didn’t want to get misbehaving kids in trouble when I asked why he didn’t report inappropriate behaviour he had seen. They learn the code in a hurry, don’t they?

Not too long ago he went to a birthday party for a classmate. For the very first time he went without me. After I dropped him off I began to wonder if he would be ok. What would they do if something happened and he needed me? I let this worry go, rather, I tried to let it go. Kids go to parties, and he loves being with his friends.

When I picked him up and asked how it went I got the usual semi complete account of event. Lacking some logic and certainly not in order. Then, the more he talked about it the more it changed. Soon he was telling me about how he was sad and cried for me. I smiled and said, “But you were ok after that right? You had fun.” Yes, he had fun. I’ve heard this kind of line before. Stories about nursery school and then his kindergarten classroom. Even when I’ve gone out and he’s been home with Scott on occasion this same little piece finds its way into his account of the day or evening, whatever I’m asking him about.

Looking at these little reoccurring instances as a whole I have reached a conclusion. My boy is keeping me on the hook.

Maybe as a favour to me, so I know he still needs me. More likely as a way to remain a little boy despite all the big boy changes in his life. Obviously, he is a genius. I admire his emotional awareness and ability to manipulate loved ones. Now, do I worry that he is turning into me or do all people use small emotional triggers to affect the people around them?

Eggs

16 Oct

A few years back, while I was pregnant with Logan, I thought a bit about how thankful I was that we were able to get pregnant. Then I thought about people who may not have it so easy. I thought about the people in my life that are in same-sex relationships, if they wanted to have families it would be harder. I pondered being a surrogate. I enjoyed being pregnant, I got wildly ill, but once that passed I loved the feeling of that life inside me. I loved having that ability, I still love it. I mulled over doing that for someone else.

When Logan was born, when I held him. When I watched him. When I felt him close to me and sensed his connection with me, the one he came from. I realized that a baby I carry is not one I could easily let go of. To feel them grow within me, and then to say goodbye, was too hard a thought to bear. Those women who can do it amaze me.

While we were trying to get pregnant the second time, it wasn’t easy. It took months. I hated my body. I was so mad at myself for not being able to do what was supposed to be natural, basic, my purpose. Looking back, reliving that anger, I thought again about helping someone else through something like that.

This past summer I started looking into what I could do, how I might contribute. I felt confident that carrying a baby for someone else was more than I could handle. It felt exciting and like something I could do in the beginning. I feared that once I was in it though I would want out. And that’s not something that seemed wise to take on feeling the way I do.

The other option is egg donation. I looked it up. What I came across was the common concern people seem to have. That women feel some connection to the offspring created from their egg. They share DNA, and for some that means family, in the emotional sense. For me, that means we share DNA, I share DNA with people I have never met. Some people go so far as to say to give your eggs to someone else is to give them your child. I don’t see that, I certainly don’t feel that. My children are the ones I’m raising, the ones I watch as they sleep, the ones I hold when they’re sad or sick, the ones I clean up after day after day. I don’t think their genetic make-up has anything to do with my love for them. If I believed that a genetic connection automatically meant an emotional connection I would have an even harder time rectifying my absent father.

I decided. I sought out a service that connected women wanting to donate or be surrogates with intended parents. I filled out the profile and submitted it. I got an e-mail saying my profile had been posted to this site. When I looked at other available donors on the list it seemed some had been registered there for some time, but were not currently in the process of donating eggs. I expected to wait indefinitely, perhaps never have my name picked. My profile was posted to the site on July 1st, on July 2nd I got an e-mail asking if I was willing to be a donor for a man who had selected my profile. My heart raced, I had already made the decision, I was ready but I really didn’t expect it so fast. Yes, I said yes. I wasn’t totally sure what it meant right away though.

When you look online for what it’s like to be a donor you come across varying accounts, I didn’t know the exact process. I didn’t want to assume that sites that told me it would be a certain way were correct. I wanted to know from the people I would be going through the process with. First step was a forty-some page package I needed to fill out before my screening appointment. Health history, intentions behind wanting to be a donor, genetic and family history. A lot of question, I had to call my Mom, and I had to call my Dad. The forms clearly said that if for any reason I would not be able to acquire the necessary information I should not pursue being an egg donor. The thought that my genetic father having left would affect my ability to help someone else was simply unacceptable, so I looked him up. I asked my questions and he answered them. It was quite civil, I could have been a telemarketer.

Next up an assessment by a psychologist, to make sure I was doing it for appropriate reasons. And that I wasn’t going to try to claim any children as my own in the future, I assume.

Then came the screening appointment, it was near the end of August. I still didn’t know if I was even acceptable as a donor. The tests involved blood work, internal and external ultrasounds and a physical. I had an IUS, something that would need to be removed if we were going to proceed. I had read a lot online about the removal, particularly in cases like mine where the strings that were meant to be used for removal had ‘migrated’. It was going to hurt, more than it had when I had it put in. I was scared, I wanted them to give me something so I wouldn’t feel it, the nurse brought me Advil, thanks. I told the doctor I was scared, he asked me what I do for a living. I’m a Mom. “Well, I couldn’t do that”, he said, “but this is what I do.” Okay, I laid back with my arms over my face, barely breathing and bracing for the pain. The nursed nudged me, it was over. Oh! Fear left me as I realized I hadn’t felt it. This doctor knows what he’s doing.

During the physical the doctor informed me that breastfeeding could not take place during this process, if I wanted to proceed I would need to wean Bella. I was a bit hesitant, she had been two for a couple of months. She was only nursing at night or if she wasn’t well. I knew it wouldn’t be fun to say no, it hurt my heart to make her cry. It was her special connection to her Mommy, only we shared those times. It took four days or so, she would go to bed with water in a sippy cup. We tried a bottle and she didn’t have a clue how to use it, I hadn’t thought about it. She had never used one before, it was a foreign concept for her. We got through it, I hope I haven’t done some unseen damage to her by stopping before she was ready. It was never my intention, I had defended her right to continue as long as she wanted. Then I waffled, I convinced myself it was for a good reason and that she had nursed longer than her brother and he is perfect. It still saddens me a bit, I could encourage her to start again but she has stopped asking so I’m going to let it lie.

The ultrasound showed a cyst, they’re not uncommon. The doctor told me he’d like to drain it, right away. I was terrified, it involved needles, and not in my arm. He said I could come back another time if I wasn’t prepared to do it that day. I knew if I left knowing I had to come back for it I wouldn’t sleep, I would go through every minute fearing what was to come. We did it, right away. Scott joined me in the procedure room, I watched on the ultra sound monitor as the mass slowly disappeared. I shook and cried in the recovery area. I didn’t know that was there, something was growing inside my body that i didn’t know about. That had become a substantial size and could have ruptured or twisted at any time. I could feel the empty space in my abdomen where it used to be. How had I not known it was there?

Over four hours later we were about ready to leave and the doctor informed me that he saw no reason why we couldn’t proceed. He sent me home with birth control pills to start in order to sync my cycle with the surrogates. We would start the IVF cycle in September assuming all the tests came back good.

I e-mailed the nurses. When would we know? The tests were good, we could move on.

I met with a lawyer, we had to discuss what I was committing to and what my responsibilities were. Also what the responsibilities of the intended father were. What would constitute a breach of our contract and what it would mean for us if either of us chose to back out. I wasn’t backing out, I wanted to do it. I was ready and excited.

The thought that in a few weeks I may have helped in the creation of an embryo  for someone who otherwise would not be having a child was exciting. It felt really good to think I could do that for someone.

Next up was my first appointment with the IVF medications, Scott drove me to the clinic in Toronto and the nurse showed me how to mix the medication, prep the needles and inject myself. I did the first two injections with her to ensure I was doing it right. I would do these two injections every morning for five days then come back to the clinic for a third. Four days after that I would do a final injection to prep the eggs for retrieval then they would put me to sleep and remove the eggs.

The first time I went to do the injections myself I was nervous. It was a Saturday morning, Scott was at work. The kids were eating breakfast. I had to do the injection at the same time every day. I had done it at the clinic at eight the day before, so there I was eight in the morning mixing the medication.

There were two needles, one in a pen, all I had to do was dial the dose then stick it in my tunny and depress the end until the full dose was in. Not too scary, and if I didn’t look I could barely feel the needle itself. The medication burned a little though. The second needle was a syringe. I had to mix the powder medication with a diluting solution then put the needle on the syringe and inject, again into the abdomen. This one was bigger. That Saturday morning I concluded I would prefer to get the worst one out of the way first, so I prepped the syringe. As I reached the end and the plunger was all the way down I got hot, and dizzy, and nauseous, and heavy. “Mommy has to lay down”, I mumbled as I slid to the floor. I was sweating and this black haze was surrounding my vision. I sat there, staring at the fridge trying to breathe and stay awake. This must be what people feel right before they faint. I can’t, the kids are here, there are needles on the counter, no one would know that I was unconscious. I stood up, I still had the second needle, the pen. I could handle that, no measuring required. Just get it over with then I can lay down. On day two Scott was home, I talked to him while the medicine went in. The other three days of those two needles I would call Scott in the morning and have him tell me a story while I injected myself. I needed the distraction, I also needed to know that if I did pass out he would know and be able to come home, or send help.

Side effects of my medication, most common ones anyway, headache, fatigue and irritability. Check, check and check. What I didn’t really expect was the feeling of my ovaries. As in I could feel them, I knew where they were. I asked the doctor, yes he said, the medication is causing your body to prepare multiple eggs, you normally only produce one per cycle. Your ovaries are swollen and will likely be heavy feeling. Cool.

It was a Tuesday. I was at home. My phone rang. The nurse asked if I was available to talk to the doctor. My breathing picked up, why is a doctor calling me at home, I had an appointment the next day, it seemed odd. They had told me when they drained the cyst that they could send away a sample for testing. I walked into a different room with the phone against my ear. Fear building in my stomach, the doctor came on the line. The tests that they had sent away that day had come back, unfortunately there was a problem. Breathing halted. The doctor has an accent and the first thing I heard clearly was “cystic” my mind went immediately to that cyst, the fact that it hadn’t been my first and what the tests may have revealed. I was wrong, it wasn’t anything to do with the cyst. They had found that I am a carrier for cystic fibrosis, he informed me that I should have my husband and children tested.

I didn’t understand what I had been told. I didn’t know what it meant, I’m a carrier. I should have my family tested. I went immediately into emotional denial and looked it up online. I learned pretty quickly that being a carrier means that I do not have cystic fibrosis but that I have half of the needed information to cause it. It’s hereditary and if Scott was the same kind of carrier that I was than there was a chance our kids could have the disease. I saw that 1 in 29 Caucasians are carriers, but that there is more than one variation of the mutation and that it takes two of the same kind to cause the condition in offspring. I could not find anything that told me at what age I would know for sure my kids were or were not affected.

The doctor hadn’t been able to get ahold of the intended father yet but we would proceed as planned for now until there was a decision from him. He may choose to proceed as usual and freeze the eggs until he was tested and ruled out that we may be the same kind of carrier, he may choose to pause until testing was done and possibly resume later or he may cancel all together.

I went to Toronto the next morning as planned. Had an ultrasound and sat down with a nurse to discuss the next medication and when I would be coming in next. She informed me they would need me in for one more day than I had planned, I was trying to figure out how I would work that out. The kids couldn’t come to this clinic and Scott had been driving me but he couldn’t take another day off work. The nurse went to talk to the doctor about it while I tried to figure it out, he came into the room while telling the nurse he would explain it to me. I was waiting for the you have to come here when we say and that’s all there is to it speech. That’s not what I got.

He sat down and sighed. They had talked to the intended father. He was weary of going forward knowing I was a carrier for CF. The doctor explained that at that point the plan was to give him a bit more time to decide, I would go home with my new medication and await instructions as to whether to proceed or not. I asked then if there was a way to know if my kids had cystic fibrosis, he asked me how old they are. “There are too many variables” he couldn’t say. I stood at the elevators waiting, fighting back the lump in my throat willing me to cry. Just get to the car, you can cry for the ride home.

My head was spinning, had all of this been for nothing? Were my kids sick? I read the night before that people with CF don’t usually live past 35. What if we wanted more kids? Would we take the risk again knowing that I’m a carrier? What if they decided to pause then start again, would I have to start the IVF all over again? It had been harder than I expected. As we reached the car I was trying to push the pain out of my head when my phone rang, it was a nurse from the clinic, “Where are you? Can you come back up?”

Back up the elevator and to the waiting room, the nurse called me after a bit, “The doctor will see you now.” He had just gotten off the phone with the intended father. They decided to stop for now, to wait for more tests. I had to go back down to the car and bring up the medications they had given me, there was no sense in holding onto them not knowing when, if at all, I would be using them again. Down the elevator again, don’t cry, just go home.

I got an e-mail later that night from the woman who runs the service that had connected me to the intended father. She was saying how upset she was with the way they were handling the situation, and said she didn’t think being a carrier for CF was a reason to terminate the process. What? A decision had been made? News to me. When I called her she wasn’t sure, it wasn’t until the next day when his lawyer informed my lawyer that I had been released from the contract, he didn’t want to proceed.

Ouch.

It hurt, more than I would have preferred. So much had happened. I was so excited. It was over. I was back in a place of being disappointed in my own body, how had I not known? Mad at the clinic for letting us proceed without having all the tests results back, it took four weeks for the genetic tests to come back but they had proceeded without them. I was also a bit confused, in some ways I was relieved. The IVF had made me feel not great, I had already decided it wasn’t something I would do again. And I had been nervous about being put to sleep for the retrieval, I’ve never been put under before. What if I didn’t wake up?

The woman who runs the service explained that it would be difficult to find intended parents willing to pair with me now that we knew I was a carrier. She asked if I was interested in being a surrogate. I closed my eyes. I thought about it, again.

No, I said no.

Sure I like being pregnant, and I would LOVE to be able to do that for someone else. But I wouldn’t be well, I wouldn’t be able to be there for my kids in the same way. I would have to have another c-section. I’d be out of commission for a while. There were more risks, risks I’m not willing to take when I have children of my own who need me. If I didn’t have kids, if they were grown up, I could probably do it. But not now. And I’m sorry, I wish I could.

Looking back the experience was not entirely negative. I met some very lovely people, I got rid of a big, scary cyst, and I learned about the CF trait that I carry. Something I would never have known otherwise. We are in the process of getting the kids to a genetic counsellor, it takes months.

If you’re interested in being a donor, I would recommend it. Being able to help someone like that is a wonderful feeling, I would guess, it was for me as I got close to it. Go here to learn more or start the process. You’ll meet Sally, and you’ll like her, I did. She answered all my questions and tolerated me excessive e-mailing, and was genuinely kind and helpful and every step.

 

 

Terry Fox According to Logan

16 Oct

This wasn’t my plan for today but Logan told me a story and it was just too long for a Facebook comment.

This is his first year of school. He’s learning new things every day that he goes. Some things, sayings and personality traits I don’t love. Other things, a true love of learning, a fascination with books and the library, and a brand new layer of little boy confidence, I love.

Recently, the Terry Fox run took place. Although he was not there for the run itself they did a walk around the school and learned a little bit about the fundraiser and Terry Fox. It is my assumption that from what knowledge the children gained they have talked about it amongst themselves. Logan informed me today of the story of Terry Fox, and how he’s going to come back to life.

According to my little monkey it goes like this,

“Terry Fox had cancer in his leg. So they took off his cancer leg and put on a pretend leg. But he died from the cancer. We raise money so the doctors can make medicine for Terry Fox. The doctors give him the medicine and make him chew it up and go into his tummy. Then the cancer goes away. When the cancer goes away they can take off the pretend leg and put his real leg back on ’cause the cancer is all gone. Then he comes back to life.”

I sat there, staring at him. What do I say to this. I tried to explain that the money we raise is for doctors to make medicine for cancer but that when someone dies they can’t come back. He is adamant that the medicine will bring Terry back.

A statement he likes to make these days is something along the lines of, “I’ll do/say it the way I want to.” As in it may be incorrect but he is going to continue to do it his way. Someone suggested this to him and it has been a struggle for me ever since. I prefer correctness. I prefer his confidence even more so I’ve walked a thin line for some time now.

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