Job and Searching

It is 10:00 a.m., I teach at 1:00 p.m. My classes are planned for today and tomorrow, even Friday. This is the time I should be working on my writing. No, not this writing, but the writing that I keep from you in hopes it will be published, some day, somewhere. In order for that to happen, I have to write it. And then I have to send it. Those things have evaded me for about six years. Six. Years. 

When I was eight, I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life; I wanted to be an archaeologist and a writer. So, I got a degree in anthropology, got some jobs digging, and did it. Then, I got a degree in writing, and, well, this is the tricky part: I've had many jobs teaching developmental English and composition to college freshmen. It's nearly impossible to get a job as a "writer" or to teach creative writing. So, I work at two colleges teaching three classes where I get paid, on average, 9 dollars an hour. In the next month, I'll start looking for summer work. 

It's even more impossible to find a job in my field when I'm not very mobile. I have a beautiful son who requires a lot of doctors and therapists. I have an ex wife with whom I share custody. Searching for jobs outside a 30 mile radius isn't really an option, unless everyone is willing to move. But it's not just being willing, it's being able to. Cyrus keeps me grounded right now.

Or maybe I'm just using him as an excuse because I'm scared. The past years have been traumatic for me. Most of the time it feels okay to be in one place and finally know all of the doctors' names and have their numbers saved into my phone. I know exactly where to go if there's a seizure, if his feeding tube breaks, when his overnight brace falls apart...sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name. And it's no small thing that all of his doctors and therapists have known him his whole life. The thought of trying to explain everything to new people just makes me shut down. 

Gaby asked recently what my dream job is. After a lot of thought and tears, I had to say I don't know anymore. I haven't allowed myself to dream for a very long time. 

This is what I do know: I love to travel. I love to eat new things. I love writing. I love playing in or near bodies of water. I love connecting with people. I love researching and learning about the past.

I love my son.

The Space Between

If you've never watched as your child is injected with anesthetics, good. I'm so glad you've never seen it. But I do want to tell you what it looks like; it looks kinda like when you have a pet put to sleep. And by that, I mean, "put-down."

Today when the medicine finally hit Cyrus, his eyes rolled back, his head bobbed, and he started jerking a little bit. The shock of seeing it startled Mindy so that she jumped. I, too, gasped. And we stood watching until he looked peaceful. Then we were led back to the surgery recovery area where we picked up our phones and started in with the distraction. 

The procedure takes just 10-15 minutes. It's a tube down the esophagus with a balloon that stretches it. The end. 

The doctor came through the hospital curtain after just 5 minutes saying, "Everything is fine. He's fine." I asked why he was there, then, with his resident in tow. "Because," he said, "I can't do it." I told the doctor to stand up, turn around, walk out, and try it all again. 

He explained to us that it's far worse than anyone thought or could really see in the upper GI study they did last Friday. You see, the constriction in his esophagus was thought to be, well, vertical, but it turns out that it's kind of sideways. So, it's impossible to shove the thing where it needs to be to dilate it. He told us they found a bean resting on top of nearly shut area. We know he hasn't eaten anything since Saturday morning. 

Maybe by now you've figured out the bad news. This problem is not a simple fix. Cyrus has another appointment scheduled for March 2. Then, of course, surgery. A surgery that requires cutting into the flesh and pulling it apart. He already has one scar like that on his stomach-from when they did the surgery to constrict his esophagus when he was just a few months old. The scar that was so long when Cyrus was a baby is now faint and much smaller. But. Here comes another one. 

Cyrus was wheeled back to us in the room. We waited for him to wake-up, and he went home with Mindy since it's still her day with him. 

I used to write about a time when there would be nothing "wrong" with him. At times, that dream seems just that: a dream. I've gotten used to so many things that most of you have never and will never deal with. My kid eats through a tube. My kid is diagnosed with "multiple disabilities," and goes to a few special classes at school. My kid has never known his stomach not to have a scar or a plastic button sticking out from it. My kid knows what the hospital gowns look like; when he sees them, he cries and refuses to put them on. Like always, I get comfortable with things, then they change. Then something big happens. That's how it's been since he was born. 

In order to send Cyrus back to school, the school nurse has to give him Pediasure in his tube around lunch time. Otherwise, he'll go hungry. She can't do that without a doctor's note. Hell, she can't even give water to him without a doctor's note. 

The surgery he needs will keep him out of school at least a week, maybe more. And the amount of time he'll need to heal his wounds, well, that could be a lifetime. 

Of course, I'm grateful that this beautiful child is mine. I'm grateful for all the amazing things he can do that doctors said he might not. But I still look forward to the day when all of his problems are gone. When I allow myself to finally relax. It's unnerving to wonder when he'll eat, when the tube can come out, when he'll run correctly, if he'll have another seizure. I want those dates and times so I can count down. X them off my fucking calendar. It's what I've craved his whole life. I know that's impossible, so I've learned to cope. 

It's any number of cliches:

I'm on a ship in a rough, dark sea. I've taught myself to find joy in the space between near-capsizing waves.

It's a war and I've taught myself to get drunk at camp in between battles. 

It's rugby and I have to breathe all I can when the whistle blows and fight like hell when it tweets again. 

It's not letting myself live in the horrible anxiety of wondering what's next. 

Back to School

Gentle Reader,

So much has been happening lately. When I say lately, I mean for the past 5 years. Cyrus was born and then everything.

As you might know, a few weeks ago I accepted a position at a skilled nursing facility as activity director. It's never something I saw myself doing (or interested in), but a friend pointed me that direction: I needed a job, she knew of a job.

It's hard.

For someone with a sensitive nose, it can be too much at times. From what I've seen, everyone is doing their jobs correctly, but the smells can't be helped. In case you're wondering, my job is to create and plan activities and then try to get the residents to participate. That's really hard when most of them are rolling around in wheel chairs or have suffered a stroke and can't move some limbs. And for whatever reason, many people there are without legs or parts of legs. There are those who cannot feed themselves. There are those who can only grunt. There are those who are completely silent.

Now imagine trying to get all of them into a dining room to bowl.

I don't even hate it. At times, I've fallen in love. There is the child of the 60s who was a freedom rider, the classical pianist, the professor, the one whose child was murdered in front of their eyes. In this case, the brain snapped. I know mine would too.

I can see myself in all of them. And that's the hardest part of the job.

But just a few days ago, in between bingo and a movie, I got an email from MU. Since I've been applying there for various teaching positions for about 8 years, I know the name of the person who sends rejections. When I saw her name in my inbox, I was hurt. They already rejected me in the spring. (and various other colleges rejected me all summer) I didn't see a need to twist the unemployment knife. But I clicked anyway. And then had to leave the building to collect myself. Now, it's not like I've been asked to teach some amazing creative writing class or anything; it's freshmen composition. And it's just two classes. But it's something. And it's what I've been hoping and working for. For a very long time.

When I explained this situation to my boss at the nursing home, he said he was really happy for me. He said it so many times. And he smiled. And I asked if I could still work there some hours a week. And he said he'd love that. It's not official yet, but it seems likely I'll be able to keep directing things and doing administrative stuff there.

But now to Cyrus, the reason for all the words I've written here over the years.

Monday morning Mindy and I had a court date for the adoption. We didn't quite understand what was supposed to happen when we were told to be there. But we went. We sat, individually, on the witness stand in front of a judge while our lawyer asked leading questions. (She mentioned that the adoption process had taken so much time because of money. But, friends, you all made it happen with your donations this spring. I can't thank you enough.) Within 10 minutes it was over and the sperm donor's rights are being terminated (even though, contractually, he had none any way). In six months we go back to court and that's when he officially becomes mine.

Also.

Tomorrow he starts kindergarten. He's five years old. He walks and talks and has strong opinions. He plays and runs and hums the Jurassic Park soundtrack. He tells me he loves me a million times a day. He chews food and swallows it. He was born with his eyes closed and no nipples or lips and he fit into the palm of my hand.

Tomorrow he will wear his Ninja Turtle backpack full of glue sticks and crayons and walk down a hallway just like hundreds of other kids. Mindy and I will have to walk away.

We'll all try not to look back.

It's a new dawn. It's a new day. It's a new life...

Like Sands Through the Hourglass

It's the first week of August, but I feel like summer started in April this year. For me, that's when I got fired from the worst job of my life and started doing archaeology. That's when I started living in hotel rooms and being away from Cyrus. I loved the work. It was the first time in years I loved what I was doing and felt appreciated. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was smart enough, like I knew what I was doing, like I really did have a specialty and a passion in a profession. 

But, just as I left for Cyrus (to have income, to stay sane), I came back for him, too. 

And if you're keeping track, you'll know he and I were in Florida for about two weeks. I hadn't really thought about it before we got in the car, but this was the most time, consecutively, I'd spent with him since January of 2013. It was beautiful. 

Upon seeing the Atlantic, he ran (his wobbly run) toward it and said, "Mom, the ocean!"  It was as if he'd waited his whole life or lifetimes to see it. When the water touched his toes, he didn't stop to contemplate, he just kept going. He spat the salt water and laughed. Without me grabbing him when the waves came, he would've gone on forever. 

He also loved the sand. He crushed a friend's sandcastle and laughed as she cried. He packed buckets full and scooped it with his little plastic shovel. 

He ate. And ate. And chewed and swallowed. Homemade paella, black beans, and yuca. He took down three small bag of Cheetos in about 15 minutes. He ate, forgive me, bites of a McDonald's cheeseburger, including onions and pickles. He swallowed it all and asked for more. He drank and drank. 

He made sophisticated jokes from the back seat of the car and sat happily, looking out the window or singing. Like we all did on road trips growing up. 

He became a more mature version of himself on this trip. I'm grateful I got to watch. 

Did I mention he starts kindergarten in a few weeks?

And I start a new job next week. I'll be creating an activity program for a nursing home. Besides teaching, I've never done anything like it in my life. I'm ready for something new. For something challenging.  

I guess I'm looking forward to my own road trip. Here's hoping I don't drown. 

The Horrible Bitch at the Park

I came home this weekend to be with Cyrus. We had a wonderful time playing and watching Ghostbusters. Until today.

You see, we were up at Art in the Park. He was tired, and it was balls hot outside. So, we headed toward the playground where exactly 1 million sweaty kids and 2 million sweaty parents crowded into the shade of trees and play equipment.

Cyrus was running around, like (totally fucking normal) kids do. I was admiring his ability to climb and slide and not fall over anymore when he runs. Just a year ago, this park would've been scary for both of us. He had trouble negotiating uneven surfaces, and little bumps from some other kid might send him reeling sideways and onto the ground.

Since he was wearing a neon yellow shirt, I let my eyes look away for a moment or two then heard some dad yelling, "that kid's kicking him!"  I could tell by his voice he meant someone was injuring his child, so I looked for the horrible thing that could be happening. I see a kid and Cyrus behind him on the slide. They're both sort of inching their way down, on their butts. I guess it might look like a kick at first glance, but you know, if you wait just a second, you can see what's happening.

Well.

Both kids were smiling.

And suddenly, the Horrible Bitch echo's her husband,, "He's kicking him!"  And she runs, with her hand raised and her voice raised, toward Cyrus. I sprinted over in front of him. But it was too late. This Horrible Bitch was yelling at my son, "YOU DON'T KICK!" And she grabbed her kid (who was clueless).  I looked right at her and yelled, "I'll yell at my son."  To which she replied, "Then, maybe you need to."

The rage in her voice and face was just...awful. So, I picked up Cyrus from the bottom of the slide. And started to walk away. This Horrible Bitch was white. And wearing one of those workout baseball hats and running shorts and a matching tank top and had on sunglasses and pony tail. You know the kind.

As I walked past her with son in my arms I said, "He's special needs."
And she said, "Then maybe you should watch him better."

I kept walking and heard her husband say, "I understand."

The only thing for me to do was burst into tears. Mom and Aunt Judy were off getting some food, so I just stood there holding in sobs. Cyrus noticed and asked if I was sad. Then he pulled up my sunglasses, "Let me see your tears, Mom."

This happened at Noon today. Since then, I've packed up and driven back here to Arkansas for work. I had 5 hours in a car to think about all this. And just cry. Here's what I came up with:

1. Why did I say he was special needs?
      Because he is, isn't he? He has a feeding tube, he's practically legally blind, and he runs funny. Like I said before, I was standing in amazement earlier as he looked like a normal kid playing. I said that to hurt her. To make her feel shame for trying to parent someone else's kids. To say it in front of the myriad of people watching our interaction. (I remember her face when I said it. I was looking right at her, but she didn't look at me. Just clenched her mouth and jaw and nodded her head just a bit. Just trying to think of the next horrible bitch thing to say) And he's been a super dick lately, really. I'm sure he's just going through something, like kids do, but every time something happens with him, we always assume the worst. Maybe his behavioral issues are in his brain and he can't control them because...

2. Why did I cry?
      I know sometimes people cry when they're mad. I'm not usually one of those, so what happened? I still see him as fragile and special. By special I mean a fucking miracle of science and love. When she yelled, with her hand in the air, I didn't see my 5 year old son on that yellow slide, but a tiny fetus attached to all those tubes. How dare she threaten such a little, precious being. It was repulsive.

3. Who the fuck does she think she is?
    There is no way I would yell at someone else's kid like that unless someone was about to be seriously injured. Again, the rage in her voice, in her whole body. The way she moved toward him, too, so deliberate and aggressive.


So that's what I cried about and obsessed over for most of my day. I've replayed it in my head a million times. The revisions I've added are as follows:

1. She touches me, in any way, I tackle her so hard her body makes that horrible noise
2. She touches Cyrus, in any way, I punch her in her fucking nose and the crowd around us cheers
3. I walk up to her and get right in her face and say, Fuck. You.
4. My dad's there. We all end up in jail.
5. The crowd, seeing it all happen, jump in an humiliate her until she cries and has to leave.
6. Her husband actually has someone in his family who is also special needs. He sees her true character and divorces her ass, taking the nice kids and raising them to be wonderful humans.

I guess this is helicopter parenting at its finest. Just hovering, waiting for some perceived threat to happen, so she can jump in and defend her child. Or maybe she's just a sad housewife who has nothing else to do but buy those matching outfits and tell other people what a shitty job they're doing of parenting.

Or maybe, and I think this may be it, she's a horrible fucking bitch who leads a miserable life.

Second Spring

Not too many days ago I got an email about joining an archaeology project in Springdale, Arkansas. They wanted me in just a few days.I talked to Mindy about a plan for Cyrus, quit my dish washing job, and here I am.

This dig isn't like the archaeology I did just a few weeks ago in Springfield, Illinois. That ws diggin small holes all over the place (in a controlled manner) and looking to see if anything was there. This dig is knowing there is stuff there and trying to find as much as we can before a road goes through. This dig is more like what you're using to seeing on t.v. But, Gentle Reader,  Archaeology isn't as glamorous as t.v. would lead you to believe. Most people employed in this field are doing manual labor all day, myself included. There is a lot of shoveling, but not the kind you might think. We don't just shove it into the ground and pop out some dirt. We dig in 10cm levels and that is skimmed with a sharpened shovel. 

This is our unit at 10 cm deep.

It takes quite a while to dig, but it sometimes takes more time to look through all of that dirt. At this site, we're digging 2x2 meter holes. Someone with math skills can figure that out, I'm sure. It's a lot of dirt to push through a 1/4 inch mesh screen. And the ease of pushing it through has to do with how wet the dirt is, what type it is (sand, silt, silt loam, clay, clay loam, silty clay loam), the type of the screen, and the sturdiness of the screen. 

Shaker Screen, not someone I know

That's what we're using. So, imagine it's lying on the ground, you dump a bucket of dirt in. That bucket weighs about 40 pounds. You learn ways to lift the screen. Then comes the fun part: you shake it back and forth about 20 times.  Some dirt will fall out, maybe, like, 10%. The rest of it you have to shove through with your hands. You do this pretty much all day. It's hard on all the body parts: hands (skin and muscle), wrists, back, arms. But what you might not expect is the pain in your thighs. You see, you have to rest the screen somewhere in order to push the dirt though, so you'll just put it on your thigh. I have bruises after two days. 

This is from my dig. See how she's got that thing propped on her leg? That's what I'm talking about.

Of course, most of you ask, "Did you find anything!?"  Yes. We sure did. In two days my unit, which is now 50 cm deep, has found, in total, 5 pieces of beer bottle glass, 2 rusty wires, and a large tarp. 

The next thing you might ask is, "What are you looking for?"  I'll tell you, "anything we find."  But if you really want to know, the site is Archaic. We look for points, flakes, and features.  There. Now you'll never be interested enough to ask again. 

I love working outside. I love sweating for my money. I like meeting new people and seeing new places. In a way, I feel like part of me is being reborn. 

In another, more important way, I fucking miss my kid. He's not here. I'm not there. I've been gone just a few days. I try to remind myself that I'm doing this for him; if I have money to live, he has money to live. We're still paying for daycare. He still has bills. I still have to adopt him. There is good news, too. I'm not that far from home, so I can see him every weekend. It's not close to enough. I hate not being there. I feel like I'm missing everything, like he'll never forgive me for being gone. 

I have teaching applications in. I'm hoping one calls soon, interviews me, and gives me job. I hope that job pays enough for me to be at home with Cyrus.  

Right now, propped up in a hotel bed, my back aching, I feel like that might never happen. Like I've never had all that at the same time. 

But tomorrow is another hot day and another level of dirt to sift through.  

Unenjoyment

Most of you know where I grew up. If not, my hometown can be expressed by lyrics from most country songs, "A little bit of chicken, fried. Cold beer on a Friday night."  Or any part from "Fishin' in the dark." Or "Country folks can survive."

And if you ain't into that, I don't give a damn.

I grew up understanding that a person's worth was dependent on his work, not the money he had. That anyone who comes home sweaty and sunburnt has done real work. Someone who has callused hands and a tired back is someone you can depend on.  Of course no one ever said this to me. But I saw my dad come home from his days at MoDot. His shirt sleeves ripped off at the shoulders and the smell of road tar, burned skin, and sweat filling the house when he slammed the door, poured an ice tea,  and asked about dinner. 

And though Mom didn't work outside, she taught me that working hard every day, no matter what, is what makes a person a whole, dependable person. She never really took a day off, and when she did, she felt guilty about it. For nine years she worked at the school's kitchen, a hot and horrible place, so she could be off with me in the summers.

My parents never took time off from work unless it had to do with me. Never a sick day. Never a "mental health" day. They both went in early and took shorter breaks than everyone, if they took breaks at all. 

Because of those lessons, I started working when I was sixteen. It was out at the Readsville store. This place was opened sometime in the 20's, and when I worked there, it looked about the same except for a t.v., and phone. My job was to check out customers, fish out the minnows for bait, make ham sandwiches, and sometimes pump gas. There were days when just a few people stopped by., so my day was filled with watching videos (on VHS) or soap operas (since those were the stations that came in). There were days when old men would slap my ass and and tell me to make a sandwich for them. "You know what I want."

I've had a job since. Even in college, I worked 30-40 hours a week. I think the longest I've been without work is 3 weeks. I'm lucky that way. Very lucky. 

But since I learned that the most important thing is a job that pays any kind of money, I've taken any kind of job. I collected pee at the nuclear plant for a while. The last  job I had as an office manager/receptionist was awful, but I hung in there because I have a kid and it paid more than any job I've ever had. Yes. Including teaching at universities. 

And that's really what I'm writing about. My parents had shitty jobs. Or jobs they hated... for me. To feed me and clothe me and take me to ball games and dance and all that. Since Cyrus, I've tried to think of jobs that way, too. I can't have any 'ole job because I have to pay for his daycare and the food that goes in his tube, and the medical bills are stacking up. I have to have work all the time to support him. And I've stayed longer at jobs that made me feel horrible because it was more important that I have a job than be happy. The fact that I quit what most would consider a cushy job teaching (and having summers off) was confusing to my parents. It took the Holzhauser in me one year to talk myself into leaving because I didn't really like it. After working just a few weeks at an office job, I nearly quit, but the Holzhauser in me made me stay. For Cyrus. Because, Christina, having a job is what is important. Your happiness doesn't matter. Cyrus' happiness is what matters.

When I took this last archaeology job, I was elated. I was never as happy as when I sweat for my money, digging holes all over. The job was supposed to last a month, 60 hours a week. Lots of over time. My plan was to work hard so I could come home and spend a whole month with Cyrus without work. Unfortunately, the job didn't last as long as it was supposed to. I was offered other archaeology jobs, but being away from Cyrus, well, it's not easy on anyone.  But right now, it's really my only way of earning enough money for him. 

So, there's my struggle. I'm washing dishes right now at a nice restaurant in town. Three days a week. The dinner shift. It's not enough to even pay my rent and hurts like archaeology. I like it, though. I wish it came with more money. 

I've applied to a lot of jobs. Jobs that require no experience, jobs that are just perfect for me and my career, jobs that look awful. I blew one phone interview just a month or so ago because I had the flu and thought I was fine to talk on the phone. 

Something I always struggled to explain to my students is that having a degree or two doesn't automatically improve your income or your chances of finding a job. I've considered lying on some applications. I could say I just have a high school diploma or maybe just a bachelors. Being over educated can be a problem, you know.  

I know, boo-hoo, Christina, you have an education. First world problems. All that. But I'm still paying monthly for that education, and so far the jobs I've landed with that degree haven't been able to pay me enough for me to pay all that off. The Holzhauser in me tells me I shouldn't've quit teaching, even though I was miserable with my job there. The Holzhauser in me says I shouldn't've quit this last office job (well, I actually got fired at the last minute, but that's another story). The Holzhauser in me tells me to take more archaeology jobs to pay for my kid, but it also says to work any job so I can spend more time with him.

It's incredibly frustrating because I've worked hard my whole life. I went out and got educated, just like society told me to do. Just like my former students were trying to do.

We're taught that more education means more money. I was never good at math, so I need someone to explain to me how that formula works. 

Of course, I don't think that my job is my life. That's why I held on to the last one for 6 months. To me, it was a place to go to get money. I know that's how most of us function in our jobs.  But, there is always a point where it becomes too much. When we'd like those 40+ hours a week to be meaningful and fulfilling.

I guess that's another formula I'll have to figure out.

UAF Museum of the North, 2005. AlaskaPhotoGraphics.com

(Author note: The Holzhauser in me has held on to this blog for a week or two. I keep thinking about posting and then quitting because I sound like such a little dick. Ultimately, I've decided to go ahead because maybe there are others out there who feel the same way.)

If It's Not One Thing, It's About Five Things

I'm currently watching The First 48 while listening to the dishwasher here in this hotel room in Springfield, Illinois. As I type, there are pink flakes of calamine lotion falling onto the keyboard from my right forearm. In fact, the itching I feel is overwhelming. It's on my neck and chin, too. Right beside my eye. My ear. My boob. It's intense, really.

I've been living here since last Tuesday and doing archaeology in the day. It's been nearly five years since I last packed all of my khaki pants into a suitcase and lived out of hotel room. It feels good, really. Working in the field is sometimes like living in a monastery. You work all day, spend nights alone (if you choose, or if you don't really know your co-workers), and have fewer distractions. It's a great time to contemplate life and choices and the years gone by.

I'm here to make a little bit of money and regain my sanity after the last job I had. So far, so good.

The part I don't like about being here is not getting to see Cyrus. We skyped on Sunday, though, and we talk on the phone occasionally. It sucks to not cuddle him, but it's even worse when he's feeling bad and I can't be there.

He had an appointment today because he's been retching lately. Apparently, he ate a strawberry the other day and then said he was full. When I asked tonight how he was feeling he said, " I feel sick." When I asked what was going on he said, "My mouth is too full."  Even just a little bit of food makes him retch. This just started a day or two ago. His pediatrician said he needs to see the gastroenterologist who put his feeding tube in and did the Nissen Fundoplication. The point of the procedure, so many years ago, was to keep his reflux from being so bad he couldn't eat. We thought maybe he just had a virus lately. He can't throw up, so when he gets those, he just kind of retches and spits up spit. But he's able to take his tube food without getting sick, so it must be something else. It must be something strange that has to do with a procedure that was supposed to fix him. Once we figure something out, some strange, new malady comes along. This is our life.

I was too busy to tell you all about Cyrus' kindergarten registration process. Mindy and I sat in a room with 10 professionals as they told us Cyrus would need a "para" for kindergarten. That means, I guess, someone to watch him all day and help him walk up and down stairs, help him remember how to eat, help him not get knocked over by other kids. The good news, or what seemed good, is that he'll be in "normal" classes for about 80% of the day. They even said, "Sped," when speaking about his education.

Now, I know you've heard me whine and cry about this before, but it never fails that every time we start to think everything is going okay, something happens. All the therapies and doctors. All the seizures. All the random problems that we just deal with.

Besides all the medical stuff, I'm still working on the adoption. Your money has been incredibly helpful and appreciated. So far, I've spent $502.50 for the cost of filing some papers, and 350$ for the update to the home study. That leaves about 1300. I'm hoping that will cover the cost of the lawyer (who bills at 200 an hour), but I've heard that can be upwards of 2,000. If I get enough over time here, I might be able to save for that.

It was just a month or two ago that Gaby said, "Your life is so hard."  At first I was offended, like she was saying that Cyrus was a burden. But then, I just cried and cried. Because it seemed, for the first time, that someone really saw me, saw all of what we go through, and understood.

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Make a Wish

Well, it's 4:44 in the morning. I've been awake for two hours. You see, when I'm stressed out, I tend to wake up around three. Since starting my latest job, the anxiety that I worked so hard to kill is starting to form a hard, skittery lump in my chest again. So, these dreams I have are always fearful: a tornado is threatening to blow my house off its foundation. I'm naked and late for some presentation. My car is careening down a steep embankment. I can't find Cyrus. I wake up with my heart pounding. To soothe myself, I count all the things I've done wrong in my life. Chastise myself for bad decisions. Count all the money I don't have. You know how it goes.

Luckily, I know exactly where Cyrus is; he's asleep in my bed. And I'm covered in a Ninja Turtle bed set because it was the most remote place to come where the light wouldn't bother him.

Besides all of the above mentioned things that have all the gears cranking in my head, today is Cyrus' birthday. He's 5. Five fucking years old.

In those five years, I know both he and I have aged incredibly. He's already the wisest person I know. And I'm very serious when I tell you that I go to him for honest, unfiltered advice. He is my spiritual guide.

You all know the things he's endured: living in a plastic cube while being kept alive by machines, surgeries, and seizures. The one year of house arrest when you wanted to meet him but were told you couldn't because of his immune system. (It took us another year to realize that the three of us could all leave the house at the same time.) His average of 5 appointments a week with doctors and therapists. The feeding pump that we once wheeled around the house. The little button still in his stomach. That fucking seizure just last week. And the newest addition, besides the eye-patch he wears for four hours a day (maybe you didn't know about that) is the brace we'll have to put his leg in at night to stretch his muscles. For at least six months.

Of all of those things, what he hates most is a blood pressure cuff.

I strive to be like him.

This is parenthood as I know it. It's a mix of medical knowledge, love, and whiskey.

Just last week when we were in the hospital, the ER doctor, who had some deep, booming voice and an east coast accent, told Mindy and me that he and his wife had a 27 weeker, so he understood. It was all I could to do to keep from throwing myself into his arms. Here was a doctor and a preemie parent. Here was someone who understood everything. And the way he treated us, like we were people. Like intelligent people. It was so new and wonderful. And he said to us, "I know what you've been through, and I know you're more sophisticated than other parents, that you know your child better than I, so I'm going to tell you something I wouldn't tell other parents..."  It's a fucked up little club I never knew existed or wanted wanted to be a part of, but to be recognized like that--well, it's like winning a goddamn award.

***
A social worker visited Cyrus and me last week to update the "home study."  Mindy and I started this part of the adoption when we were still together. She was nice, but asked a lot of personal questions. Like why we are no longer together. If Cyrus saw us fight (no. never. because we never fought). How our relationship is now. You probably wonder that, too. It's good. We're friends. We're amazing co-parents. From the outside, I hear, it seems very intimate still. Well, look at all we've shared. Such joys. Such sadness. How many other separated parents have to make a couple of medical decisions nearly every week?

We have to do one more home study on March 30th. The social worker said it was to see if Mindy and I really did get along. Then, in six months, I can apply to adopt him. I mean. I can start the process in six months. Who know when it will end.

***

Mindy, Cyrus, and I are going to have a birthday breakfast together. We're going out, but right now I'm worried. All of the thoughts of five years ago today will come back. We'll lose it right in the middle of the restaurant. We'll just weep for all that we've been through. All that the three of us are still recovering from.

Five Years. What a Surprise.

We're preparing for Cyrus' 5th birthday. Yes. It's been five years since we all started this journey.
So far, he's gotten a Ninja Turtle bike, a knight costume (with gauntlets, which he asked for specifically), super awesome knight books, and a trailer he can sit in while I pull him with my bike. He's really obsessed with knights. "Mom, do knights ice skate?" "Do knights wear armor?" "Is armor heavy?" "Can knights not ice skate because of the metal armor?"  "Mom, am I being curious?"

Some updates for you:

He still gets most calories through his feeding tube. No. We don't know how long he'll need it.

He still has at least three appointments a week: Speech Therapy (to help with eating), Physical Therapy, and Occupational Therapy. He also does adapted gymnastics once a week. And pretty soon, he'll have horse therapy again. That's five a week. Five a appointments to help him develop. To be normal. Since he can walk, talk, and take himself to the bathroom, these things have gotten a lot easier for us to handle. We still forget, though, that most parents and kids don't go through this routine every week.

Today Mindy took him to another one of his many dates. He went to see the...well, I'm not sure of her title, but she's the one who fit the helmet he wore, the leg braces he wore, and the insoles he currently has.  Well, basically she said she can't help us anymore. Cyrus needs to have Botox shots in his legs to help him loosen up. OR he can wear splints at night that stretch his legs. OR he can wear a cast for five days, have it removed for two, then put back on again for another five.

The truth is, he walks and runs funny. We forget so easily because we're still amazed that he can walk (after being told he probably never would). Every day we're in awe of how much our son has grown. And then every so often we're reminded he doesn't look like other kids.

I kiss you, you're beautiful, I want you to walk. 

Tomorrow he has to get some vaccines so he can start kindergarten. Tomorrow night he registers for kindergarten. Kindergarten. We weren't sure if he'd be ready. When I got the call a month ago that he no longer needed Special Education, I cried. And cried. And told all of my co-workers who barely know me. I mean, don't know anything about Cyrus' struggle.

Friday night, Cyrus and I have a home study. That means a social worker will come into my house and decide if I'm a good parent to the child. You know, so that I can adopt him.

Because of all of you, I can now afford to do this. Thank you.

I never thought I'd need so many people.


Cyrus is growing up, and nothing makes me happier. I've heard parents say they wish their kids were babies again. That time flies. Well, I'm grateful Cyrus is now a child. I know the days when he won't want to cuddle ("Mom, will you cuddle me on the couch?") will too soon be over. But I want nothing more than for my kid to become an asshole teenager who can drive (did I mention he's almost legally blind?). I love our conversations and look forward to our fights, too. Gone are the days of waking up in the middle of the night to switch with Mindy (the bed for the couch) and hook him up to a feeding machine where the tube would come undone, spray him with milk, make him freeze all night, and then beep so fucking loud when it was done.

Gone, too, are those doctor's appointments when we're told he won't walk. Or talk. Or be able to go to a regular school. I don't miss anything from that time except my ignorance of things to come.

My brain hurt like a warehouse. It had no room to spare. I had to cram so many things to get everything in there. 

I know I usually tell you all the sad things. I'm not sorry about that that. The truth is, Cyrus is very happy. So am I. My son is funny and smart. He loves music "Mom, is that a stand-up bass?" In fact, yesterday we were on our way home from daycare when Montel Jordan's 1994 classic "This is How We Do It" came on the radio. I heard him, from his car seat, singing, so quietly, "this is how we do it."  Later last night he took a bath. Out of nowhere, "Mom, am I washing myself?"  And then he sang, "This is how I wash it."  I laughed. I cried. I held him all night long.

He is the kind of kid who laughs in his sleep and then wakes up to tell me, "Mom, I love you because you're an athletic football player."

I say to him, "I love you because you are Cyrus."

Take This Job And...

let someone else deal with it.

As some of you know, I had an unexpected interview in June. I chose not to take the job because...well, you can read the blog before this one to find out.

I wrote that I realized that working at Lincoln was like being in an abusive relationship. Well, today I finally got my last suitcase out of the house. The process was hilarious.

Last week I went in to gather all my things and found that my nameplate was off my office door already. So were my skeletons. When I went upstairs to my old office to get some final things, I found that someone had already thrown all of my stuff into boxes and set them in the hallway. I opened the door, expecting that someone had already moved in, but the room was empty; my personal area rug was missing.  "Fuck," I said.

I put all the things in my car and was getting ready to go the key return building when I learned that I had to complete a "sign out" sheet first. The secretary told me I had to collect signatures and turn it in before I could leave. So, I went to HR and asked for a sheet. That person told me I couldn't get a sheet until the secretary or department sent her another form. Of course, that would take a day to process, and she'd be on vacation the rest of the week, so I should just come back next week.

That's what I did today.

I went to HR and asked about my sheet. It wasn't there. I sat for 15 minutes waiting for a sheet to appear. From where, I have no idea. Once I had the sheet, I counted...12 signatures in 12 offices in 7 different buildings.  I started my stopwatch.

I was in Young Hall, so I started there. First, Student Accounts. Why? I don't know. I found the office and was mistaken for a student.

No. I'm quitting.   I held out my paper.

The person working looked so sad. "What did you teach?"

English.

"How long!?"

Six years. 

"Oh, I'm so sorry you're leaving."

I finally made it to the right person. She sat me in a line of students...since it was student accounts. I waited about 10 minutes. She pulled me into her office and asked if I was there about financial help.

No. I'm quitting. And I handed her my paper.

She recognized my named. "Oh, no! My son's coming here next year and he needs you. I've heard so many good things about you."

I'm sorry. I tried. 

Without looking up any information, she signed my paper.

I went upstairs to Accounts Payable. "I just signed another one of these a few minutes ago," she said. Without looking up any information, she signed my paper.

I ran around the building not realizing there was a basement and finally found the Records Office. Someone signed my paper.

From there I went to Schweich Hall. The assistant recognized me. "I heard you were leaving."

Yes.

"On to bigger and better things, then?"

Mostly just away from here. 

"Oh"

My next destination was the Purchasing Department. I had no idea where it was, so thought I could maybe walk there. Then I realized it's about a half mile away. I was already sweating, so I headed back to my office to get my department head's signature.

He was busy.

So, I hopped in my car to drive to the Purchasing Department. "Do you even have a Lincoln purchasing card?" he said.

Nope

He signed my paper.

I drove further and found the Police Department headquarters. In case you're wondering, it's a house. Just and old house. "Do you have Sonitrol?"

What?

He signed my paper.

I thought I'd just drive on over to the Physical Plant to return all my keys. I had seven. But there was a road out, so I drove longer than I meant to. On the way I found a building labeled "Small Animal Research."  I had no idea.

I'd been to the physical plant before and had their keys, so the guy looked up my name and checked off all the keys I'd returned. By this time, I had some severe crotch sweat and I was thirsty.

I drove back to a parking spot and went back up to my office. My boss signed my paper. We shook hands.

I had to walk back to Young Hall to the Casheir's Office for one last signature and to turn in the paper.

I hit the stop watch. Two hours.

Now, I know that's not too exciting to read about, but I thought it would be a nice introduction to the part you really want to know...why I did it.  Well.

Like the Signature Scavenger Hunt, I found LU to be, well, strange. Most of you have asked or assumed that I'm quitting because of my students. That is the opposite of the truth. Yes, I post their obnoxiousness on facebook, but I've also posted the nice things. The only reason I worked there so long was the students.

I quit because I've worked my ass off for 6 years. I've given all of myself to the place. And they've given me nothing in return. It wasn't just a bad paycheck, but no one cared that I existed. For two years I worked on redesigning the Basic English sequence (a project I'd received 5 days before a semester began because the other professor threw her hands in the air and left) and had done a good job. My work was recognized by outside organizations. I went to conferences. Gave presentations. Helped others redesign their own courses.

I was told last fall that there would no longer be basic English courses. It was the president's decision. But. It's like I didn't even exist. (Just last week when I went in, I threw away 60 pounds of papers, of the research I'd done for that project.) Suddenly, all the work I'd done didn't matter anymore. Those classes wouldn't exist anymore.

I served on hiring committees. Department committees. I did the work of a tenured professor without being one. And I did it happily at the beginning. I wanted to prove myself. Earn my place. I know how those things work; I've played team sports. Rookies wash and carry equipment until they're deemed worthy. I schlepped more than my fair share in the department.

Then came a job opening in the department for a tenure track Composition Coordinator. I applied. I didn't get it. The person they offered it to turned it down. I could see at least another year of doing that job...the job I'd already been doing...for nothing. Again.

But still I was going to hang in there. Because I bought into all that "It'll make your CV look great" stuff that we all hear.

Then came that amazing job offer from the archaeology lab. Yes. The pay was insane (for me).  But more than that was how the boss made me feel. She made me feel more appreciated and worthy than LU had, well, ever.

Of course there are a million other secret details I can't tell you. And my point here is not to hate on LU but to tell you how sad the whole system is. How I was supposed to be satisfied that I had a job at all. How not having a PhD makes me unworthy. Like I said in the last blog, it was like someone telling me no one else could love me. That I was unlovable. That I should be happy that anyone wanted to be with me at all. No raises. No promotions. You should be happy you have a job, Christina.

You wonder what I'm going to do now. Won't it look bad on my CV to have a gap in my teaching? I don't know. I don't care. My students appreciated me more than the university, but it wasn't enough to sustain me.

What will I do now? Well, I've got some things going. I'm also going to teach a few classes at CMU here in Columbia. I'll be an adjunct again. Adjuncting isn't bad when you have something else going.

When I went to thank the VP today for all of her faith in me and support, she pulled up a new job on the LU website. It's a "Learning Specialist" (kind of like a tutor). The pay is more than what I was making as an instructor. "Please consider, " she said.

I ran into two former students today. One was working in the HR office. The other somewhere in the student accounts places. I went to her desk, told her the news. She looked teary eyed and came around to hug me.

"You're a perfect fit for these students, Christina. You're one of the best professors here."

I know. I was. 



So. There you have it. Higher Education.

And I will laugh in the faces of those who doubt me...

The Job Offer

Not too many weeks ago a friend called to tell me he was quitting his job and that I should apply. Of course, like you, I wondered why I should apply to a job my friend didn't seem to want anymore. He gave me a solid explanation and told me I was a much better fit than he. I applied.

The job is in St. Louis. It's an archaeology lab position. The job pays 64% more than what I make at Lincoln. Don't worry, Lincoln is number 2 in the nation in shittiest pay, so I don't make a lot now. Mindy and I discussed what could possibly happen with Cyrus before I accepted an interview.

I drove there excited, hoping to move and to make all that money. Dreams of paying off my students loans within months clouded my windshield. I could pay off my car. Fuck. I could start paying back my parents for everything they've helped me with. Ever. Cyrus' medical bills could be paid in seconds. For me, it would've been like winning the lottery.

The interview was great. I liked everyone. The job looked like something I could do and would want to do. Hell, the building is about 7 blocks from Busch Stadium. I pictured myself getting off work and walking on over to a game. I'd already bookmarked some beautiful 3 bedroom houses on craigslist. That dark wood and all the light pouring in.

After the interview I drove to Broadway Oyster Bar. Fuck, I thought, I can come here and listen to music. Oh, the music I could hear all the time in a bigger city!

I got onto I-70 and drove off into the sunset. You all know the route. Those rolling hills and creeks. The evening fog rising. And I thought, if I was offered the job, I'd have to make that drive on the weekends to see Cyrus. And, what, I'd see him for a day or two before driving back? Back to a huge, beautiful, empty house. Back to a city where I'd know just a few people. In my 20s, the thought of being reborn in a new place was utterly intoxicating, but now, at 34, it just seems exhausting.

I picked up Cyrus from Speech Therapy where Mindy was. She asked how it went. "I think they like me," I said.

After Cyrus went to sleep that night, I cried. I cried so hard thinking about missing nearly a year of his life (until Mindy could move to St. Louis, too). I cried about leaving my rugby team. They're not just a team. They are my friends. They've been my support system for 7 years. Through Cyrus' birth. And our divorce. What would I do in St. Louis...roll around in a pile of money? I've been writing, too, for the first time in years. I'm enjoying becoming myself again. I just got sane. Cyrus has just started using the toilet and eating more.

I called my mom crying; that's not something I really do. The thought of moving, of leaving behind the cute little house I rent beside the horses. No. I couldn't do it. If they offered.

Later that night Cyrus woke up and came into my room. I took him back to his bed because he was still mostly asleep. I tucked him in and kissed him on the cheek. "I love you, Mom," he said. "Meow." I held my tears when I said, "I love you, too, Baby Kitty."


When the call about the job came a few days later, I told the boss, "I politely decline." I told her why because we'd discussed Cyrus during the interview. She was very understanding and said that I'd obviously made a lot of good decisions in my life and that this was just one more. Family is number one, she said.

So, here I am, still bitterly employed at a job where no one knows I exist. Actually, my students seem to be the only ones who care about me or my career. And I'll have to keep reminding myself that my job is not my life. My job gives me just enough money to eat and pay my pills.

I've learned some very important things already this summer:

1. Working at Lincoln is like being in an abusive relationship with someone who strives to make you feel like there's no one else out there who can ever love you.  That one night stand with another employer was enough to show me that there's so much more out there for me.

2. I'm still a writer

3. Cyrus's happiness is my priority

4. (but my own is very important, too)

A Birthday

It's been four years since you've all been blessed with the wonder that is Cyrus.
For me, it feels like a hundred years or just yesterday that this man was born. (If you'd like to revisit that blog, it's on this site)

This is still a hard day. I try not to think back to all the things that happened to Mindy and me before and after March 21st, 2010. But. I can't help it. Missed phone calls. Open cervix. A quick education. The death of two pets. Blood everywhere. Mindy's shaking body. A tiny baby in a cube. All those cords and machines making him work. Wondering every day if he'd live another.

The isolation we both felt from all of you. From the world. We were told to stay inside for a year because of his immune system. We did. In some ways, I'm still trying to come out.

But here he is, friends. Have you ever met a more compassionate person? The other day I was overcome with joy, with pure love for him, watching him kick a soccer ball in the yard. I scooped him up and told him I loved him, my voice cracked a little. And even though I was wearing sunglasses, he knew, "Mom, are you sad? Are you crying?"  I tried to explain that people cry when they're happy, too. He just screwed up his face in a frown and cried with me. Then he kissed, and kissed me.

That's how he wakes me up, too. He's still sleeping with us (judge all you want), so he rolls over in the morning, kisses my cheek (he does it with Mindy, too, of course) and says, "I love you, Mom."  When he's going to sleep at night he asks for kisses, "Mom, can I kiss you?" Sometimes he asks to hold my hand or says, "Mom, I wanna hug you."  If kids are crying in the grocery store, he stops what he's doing and turns to me, "Is she sad?" This is followed by minutes of talking it out with him. He likes to talk things out. He wants to understand everything there is. I try my best to facilitate.

He loves music, especially bluegrass. Banjos really do it for him. He also loves to sing and seems to know nearly every song, or at least parts of them.

This kid also loves to kick and throw balls. He's curious about things and learns new words quickly.

He is fucking amazing.

I know everyone says that about their kids. But, I don't feel like he's mine so much as I'm his. He is Cyrus the Great, Wonderful, and Powerful. I am just the person who shreds his cheese and drives him around. I don't mind, though. Because. Well. You've met him. Everyone who meets him falls in love.

But living in his shadow is hard, too. We're still slaves to the feeding tube, and he's wearing pull-ups; we're working hard on these two.  He has an appointment with a SLP and PT every week. He's also enrolled in adaptive gymnastics and horse riding. So, 4 appointments a week. Mindy and I try to divide them evenly, or at least divide all tasks evenly. Since she is the only legal parent, she has to do all the paperwork and fight with the insurance. Just recently they decided to stop paying for his food-that's 600$ a month-so she's been on the phone a lot lately.

Finally, though, it feels like I'm close to being just a regular parent. The first years I felt like a doctor, nurse, and all sorts of therapists. His life was appointments and schedules of feedings and beeping machines and hand sanitizer.

Today, don't just celebrate the birth of such a remarkable boy.  Celebrate all of the  love and support and hope and joy from family, friends, and strangers it took to keep him with us and raise him up.

Let's keep holding him up. I can think of nothing in this world more beautiful than that.

Complex, Partial Parenting

Every-single-time it happens like this:  I'm driving. The sun is shining. The song on the radio is mediocre. I catch myself noticing small things; a leaf surfing the wind, some cows all facing the same direction, cars merging at the same, choreographed speed. And I smile. I start singing the mediocre song like it's my favorite. Despite all the loss in my life, I think of all the things I have that make me happy. I cry a little-the happy kind. My shoulders relax. I nod my head. Yes, world.

Then, within the next days, something horrible happens. This time it was a seizure. This time I startled awake at 4:24 a.m., reached for my phone, and saw 8 missed calls. There was a strange voicemail, "he's seizing. they're on their way to women's and children's.

Cyrus started having seizures just days after he was born. His sinewy, tiny red arm would move, like he was fist pumping at some cheesy rock concert. He was less than two pounds. He had seizures because, as the doctors say, "It's just what preemies do."  He had another seizure like that within the next months, right before he had eye surgery. Our little man was still only 38 weeks gestation when that happened. Since he left the NICU, he's had several, but they are a strange, glassy-eyed kind. He can still move around the room. Play a little bit. But he just stares and doesn't respond to his name. The last time he was in the hospital was August of 2012, for this very thing.

Not too long ago his school called to say he "checked out" while they were playing outside. When he finally came to he said, "I peed." 

Despite these seizures, he hasn't really been diagnosed with anything; it's frustrating as hell. Once doctors realize he's a 25 weeker, they just say, "Well..."  They've done that about his feeding tube. They treat us like we're idiots. They look and say, "Well, he is a 25 weeker."  Like, we should settle for the feeding tube because of that. Like, we should just be thankful he survived and shut up about everything else. He has random seizures of unknown origin..."Well, he was born at 25..."  We know. We cannot un-know all of that.

Don't get me wrong, here. We absolutely know how lucky we are to have such a bright, sweet, and funny child after his incredibly rough start. We know the statistics. We saw, with our own eyes, the tiny babies who came to the NICU. We were members of the babies who were weighed by grams and ounces club. ( I can't count the amount of condiment containers I've stared at in diners and thought, "he weighed as much as a full ketchup bottle." ) The parents we met one day and never saw again.

So, these seizures don't seem to have a real cause. They are unpredictable. But, every time we check out of the hospital, we get a paper that says, "Complex Partial Epilepsy." And we are given a sheet full of appointments with doctors. We are given a stern look and a talking-to about going to the appointments. We always do. They always shrug and tell us the tests are normal. The medicine should stay the same. And, of course, "Well, he is a..."

*     *     *

This is the first terrible thing that's happened to Cyrus since Mindy and I split up. I keep my phone on silent when I sleep, but, as I learned very early Sunday morning, I shouldn't do that anymore. Luckily, the universe told me to wake-up when I did.

I didn't see this seizure. Mindy says it was different. Bigger. Scarier. So, she called 911. They drove, with our seizing child, the speed limit. With no lights. He seized for 25 minutes. We just learned today, at check out, that they were very close to intubating him in the ER. I'll save my hatred for that group of medical workers for another time. I will tell you that Mindy had to request they give him oxygen on his non-hurried, thousands of dollars trip to the hospital.

The sad truth is simply: Mindy and I are excellent in hospitals together. We know what our roles are and swap them at the appropriate time. To the observer, it might look like an innate trait. We sort of sleep-walk our way through it. If you see us parenting in the hospital, best leave us alone. Never wake a sleep-walker.

It's not until we wake that we see the destruction.

*   *   *

Cyrus walked out of the hospital by himself, occasionally holding my hand or Steiny's. Then Mindy's. I drove my own car to Mindy's house where I tried to carry him inside. "I want to do it by myself," he said. He ran in and started playing with the cats and two tractors he'd left on the floor. Mindy went to the pharmacy to get his new prescription filled. Meanwhile, we played balloon ball. He tried to ride me like I was a horse. He told me to pretend to sleep. He grabbed the balloon and said, "run with me, Mom!"

Since it's Monday, it's Mindy's time to have him. I decided to leave. I hugged him. I hugged Mindy long and hard. We cried, of course. I told her that maybe one day we'll get a break.  And I looked down on the rug at our beautiful son. He was playing with a Thomas the Tank Engine train track. But mostly watching us. I went back to hug him again and cried a little harder. He looked up at me, "Mom, are you feeling sad?"  I told him I was. He hugged me and patted my back. Then he looked at me again, made an empathetic frown, and put his small finger tip against my eyelid. "Mom, do you have a tear?"

Bottoms Up

As I write this, I'm sitting on my porch. I say my porch because it's the house I'm renting, the one I've lived in since the end of January. It's so quiet out here. Away from the noise of sirens and people walking by the house on Sexton, singing to their iPods like they don't give a fuck. It's quiet here, too, on days when I don't have Cyrus. And my cat is still living with Mindy and the other cats. So she won't be lonely.

In March, my levee broke. I'd lost my wife and family. My grandma died. The stress of the past three years came rushing at me. There came a night I knew I couldn't be a good mom to Cyrus, so I called my own mom. She stayed with me that night. And I cried all the next day. Until 1:00 when we finally had to get something to eat. I drove us to Flatbranch, pulled right into a spot. Then stopped.

It's hard to explain how I felt then. I knew I couldn't go into the restaurant. I knew I couldn't go back to my house. It seemed like there was no where in the world to go where I would ever feel better. I cried. Mom cried. And the strangest thought crossed my mind, something I'd never thought before, in all the trials of my life. I need to go to a hospital. I called Mindy and told her that I needed help, needed to be checked in. Mom stepped out of the car to call Dad. I had no idea what was happening in my brain, but I knew this was something I couldn't come back from, not alone. I wept. I stared at all the normal people walking to and from the building, hungry or full. And I felt nothing.

Going to the ER for sadness felt ridiculous and the staff seemed to think so, too. They kept asking if I was suicidal. I wasn't. I was just really, really sad. They twisted their mouths and raised their eyebrows. Mindy came to help me.

Five hours later, they sent me away with a prescription and an appointment with a therapist in 5 weeks. They told me the pills wouldn't kick in for 2-3 weeks. I stayed with Mindy, in our house, for at least a week. I felt like I couldn't take care of myself. I cooked some meals and watched Netflix. I sat in Mindy's lap and let her hold me like a baby. I cried so much. So, so much.

*     *    *

You want to know why we aren't together. These things are always too complicated to explain. I'll try: because my love changed. And maybe hers did, too. We both agreed that something needed to happen, something. Anything. So I moved out, and we took off our rings.  And I saw someone secretly. And she is still dating someone.

Now she is my baby mama, but not "just."  She is my best friend. The person who has made me my best and seen me at my worst. She is still who I turn to, though I'm not sure that's what we're "supposed" to do.

I'm officiating a wedding in October. I was asked to do this before Mindy and I split, so there was a time when I was afraid I'd be unasked. I think, because you've known my blog; and therefore, my thoughts, you probably saw us as some power couple. Some beautiful example of what love is. We were. And, to some extent, we still are. How can two people endure what we have and still find love to give the other? She is always happy when I'm sad, and the opposite is true, too. That's how we've always worked.

I'm still not sure what I'm going to say about love and marriage at the wedding. I've felt the deepest and hardest kind as well as the light and fluffy. I have loved and lost. I still love. I want to love again.

My friend told me that maybe marriage is like a pitcher of water. For some, the pour is smooth and steady, a trickle, drop by drop. For others, maybe, it's bottoms up.

Reveille

This summer is when we finally woke up from all the trauma and despair. For me, it happened in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. I went with Amanda Bales to help her move her worldly possessions to Columbia. We drove down together, listening to Radio Lab podcasts and commenting on our parts of the world. I was reminded that I had a brain, that I was interested in things. That at one time, I was going to be a writer.

That night we stayed with her buddy, Murphy. He had a pretty typical bachelor pad. A couch from the 80s, all that woven plaid stuff. Some fake leather recliner with the ass part all worn, the kind that makes you sweat even if it isn't 99 degrees. Which it was.

It was that night when I bought, for the first time, Shiner Bock in a can. Also that night, Murphy got me high. We sat in his yard, some scorched earth and grass, while he cooked havles of chickens on his rusty grill. There was music coming out of the window, from the ipod player, and the wind was hot. The kind that steals your breath. Or just feels like someone's breath. I looked at Amanda and told her how much fun I was having. How happy I was at that moment. And it was happier than I'd felt in two years, or two and half years, or however long it's been.  She laughed at me.

As the night came on, I smoked more. I drank more. I listened as my artist friends talked about life; they talked to me like I was one of them. And then I went to bed. There I was, all boxers and tank tops in some dude's bed with an oscillating fan blowing that hot air up and down my tingling body. I smiled. And I cried. I could feel again. I was relaxed again. And I looked at my body on those mismatched sheets on a crooked bed in a hot house. I was sexy. Or, at least, I felt like having sex.

This may not seem that amazing to you; you probably want to have sex all the time, like most people. But I haven't. I haven't felt that in years. I've wanted to feel that, and there were times when I got close to nearly feeling it. But not the intense hunger I had before. When I was 21 or 25. Something about that night made me come back to life and feel like the me I used to be. The Traveler. The Artist. The Human. The Individual.

Not too many weeks later, Cyrus went into the hospital for what we thought were seizures. Mindy and I turned into preemie parents again. She stays with him while I feed the cats, pack some clothes, swig some whiskey, and buy everything on a McDonald's menu at 1:00 a.m. Then we sit in darkness and stare at our son. Nurses and doctors come in, so by the time we get to that disgusting pile of calories, it's cold. So we have to eat it faster to get it down. Then we sit on those long, uncomfortable couch beds and stare. Stare at our son attached to cords and tubes. We don't look much at each other. When we do, we cry and say not again. We can't handle any more. Please. No more.

But then he was fine. Again. And school was starting. And that feeling came over me again and maybe more than before. I was tired of hospital rooms and heavy eyelids. And crying and worrying. I decided to let myself feel all the things I'd wanted to for years. I allowed myself to be myself.

I looked at Mindy and saw her as my hospital partner. Cyrus' other caretaker. The person who lived in my house. The one who was sad with me. The one who made me sad.

I bragged during the whole experience that our relationship stayed in tact, that we were unscathed, that we still loved each other. And we did. We do. But we had to. We couldn't have done all that alone, without someone to understand or cry on. Without one to be strong when the other couldn't. How could anyone do that alone?  But now that it is over, or mostly over. Now what?

For months I've been withdrawn because I'm lusting after you. I'm falling in love with you. All of you but my wife. Some more than others. I've destroyed friendships and burdened others with too much talking, or too many awkward looks. I've brought our marriage to its knees. I just wanted to feel again. To feel young and unburdened. To forget everything.

Then things were okay.

And then daycare called today to say that Cyrus "checked out" for 40 minutes. To say that he wasn't really even looking at people when they said his name. That he just stared out from behind glassy eyes. To say that he just decided to try to sleep on the cold tile floor.

You all say that we've gone through so much more than most people. You all say we're so strong and that we're great parents. We are great parents. But we are no longer great friends. Or coworkers. Or daughters. Or lovers.

So, just like that, we'll all go back to sleep.

Christina Rides Again

I'm happy.

It happened last night when I was in the bathroom. I know, it's not that romantic a thought, but as I was regretting the Chipotle burrito with hot sauce followed by leftover Thai with hot sauce, I smiled and nearly laughed. I was overcome with happiness.

The change was gradual. Over the past months, though I hadn't thought about it until last night, I was making small changes. I quit watching real-life dead people shows and started watching The Office. We went on a very small vacation. I also started playing Super Mario 3 on Wii while listening to music. I rode my bike to rugby practice. I played rugby. I spent a day in the park with two friends drinking whiskey and coke.  This morning I weeded my garden. The other day I edged it with a new weed-eater we bought. I've been playing my guitar and singing.

You see, these are things I would've done before, but there was something different about them; I felt lighter. No, that's too easy. It felt like everything I did was comforting and special. Like, every little household activity is a privilege, not an obligation. This morning as I played in the dirt and sang 90s dance music, I thought, "this is lovely."

Last week I worked at my friend's farm; it was beautiful.

Yesterday Cyrus ran through the yard while Mindy worked on her flower beds; it was beautiful.

Right now some ugly robins are playing in my sprinkler; it's beautiful.

You see, it's not like before. Before, those things would've happened and I would've thought:

Farming=something that people do
Yard work=something that people do
Birds bathing= something that birds do

 And though I haven't really done the one true thing that Christina needs to do to be complete (a little taste of it right here, maybe), I've done most of them. So it's coming.

Mindy also seems happy. She likes her job and her boss. She's eating healthier. We both are.

But this summer I have time to myself. I've had just a week without students and without toddler (he's at daycare) during the day. I don't have students this summer, but I'm still working. This is the first summer in 4 years that I haven't had to scamper and hurry to get a job to keep some small amount of money coming in. In the past that was archaeology, and then last summer, because of Cyrus, I worked at my friend's farm and watched him the rest of the days. It was hard work all around, and since the summer before Mindy and I sat mostly unemployed and with a new, very fragile baby, it seemed even worse.

But here I am. Watching birds bathe and plants grow. The house is clean. 

Oh, I know, there are still horrible things out there; they are still happening to people I love. But I'm able to separate that from myself now. And maybe that seems indifferent and cold, but I've done my time in the Sadlands. Now it's time to saddle up and ride outta there. Until that shithole is covered in my dust.

Two Years

There are lots of awesome new developments in our lives, but I'm not very good about writing about those. Here is the latest baby news:

Some friends lost their babies. So did another friend. Some friends got pregnant. Some friends had a perfectly healthy baby.

I guess that about covers it.

Did you guys realize that it was two years ago yesterday that Mindy was admitted to the hospital? That's right, Cyrus' birthday is fast approaching. Now, we're starting to hear this, "Two!? Doesn't it go by so fast!?" NO. It does not. The time has not flown by. It has creeped its way along the ground, stopping occasionally to sleep or nibble on some...fuck, I haven't written in a long time. You get the idea, we've had it rough. So, don't say that shit to us, how it all just flies by.

But it's not near as terrible as it was. Cyrus is starting to put food in his mouth. So far, it seems he hasn't figured out that it should be eaten, but he loves flavors. Crazy flavors. He can walk, but he doesn't. He doesn't get mad when other kids take his toys. He doesn't take their toys either. We figure he's really laid back or, well, something else...

It's the something else that we've managed to forget about for two years. We were so focused on the here and now: time to tube him, time for meds, time for a doctor appointment, time for bed. But now we're getting more relaxed. And we've learned from experience that when you feel comfortable, you find out horrible news. If there is this type of news for us, we won't really find out for a couple of years, I assume.

I've managed for so long to block all that out. But, for the fifth time, Cyrus was born at 1 pound 13.5 ounces. He was 25 weeks and 3 days gestational age. He had seizures, for sometimes 45 minutes at a time. Amazingly, I'm able to forget these details. Finally.

Being reminded is rough. It pisses me off. It makes that weight lower onto my chest all over again. It gets hard to breathe.

Again and again.

The Appointment

Since Cyrus is my first time at being a mom, I don't really know anything. Mindy doesn't either. The truth is, you probably don't want us babysitting your kid unless he's fed by a tube. I have no clue about what regular babies or toddlers eat. I wouldn't know how to feed your kid. Seriously.

We met with a dietician yesterday to discuss "Blenderized Food." It's just regular food stuck in a blender and then stuck in his tube. It's easy. Right. Except I have no idea how much to put in his tube. I don't know how many calories he needs. I learned just yesterday that one teaspoon of oil is 45 calories. Sweet.

But on Monday we're traveling to St. Louis to see a pediatric GI doctor. Yeah, we've seen one here in Columbia, but he was a douche. Just threw some medicine at Cyrus' retching disorder.

And that's the reason I picked up the 'ol computer tonight. I have no idea, once again, how regular toddlers sleep. Ours sleeps fitfully. He coughs, gags, and cries. I hear his crying about 4 times a night. We still have to give him medicine at 1:00 in the morning, every night. Because he is fed by a tube, we sometimes have to feed him after he goes to bed. There is nothing worse than feeding a kid with a tube in the dark. Sometimes he coughs and the food shoots back up in our faces. Then he cries because he has coughed, so he tries to roll to get comfortable, all the while a tube still hooked to his button. Then he gags on his coughing. Then he cries.

So right now Mindy is holding Cyrus because he was just fed and starting crying and coughing and gagging a little. Mindy says she doesn't hear him at night, all the noises he makes, but I do.

We're tired. We've been getting up in the middle of the night for at least 6 months now. We've been taking turns sleeping on the couch for 18 months. At first we had to feed him every three hours, I guess the way normal parents would, but we'd have to hook him up to his pump at night. We'd hold him while he "ate" because that's what regular babies do. You hold your babies while they eat, be it bottle or nipple. So we tried. We wanted him to feel comforted while his stomach filled up.

Then we started pumping him over night because we figured after all the shit we'd been through, it was time to sleep a little. That was okay, but if something weird would happen to the pump it would make this horrible, high-pitched siren noise and wake us up. All of us. Some nights his tube would pop open (it would take too long to describe what I mean) and his food would leak all over him. When we would wake up in the morning, we'd roll over to cuddle him and find him freezing, sleeping in a huge puddle of cold milk stuff. Other times it would leak out all over the hardwood or the carpet.

I'm sure that our coming to medicate him in in the middle of the night was horrifying for him at first. Could you imagine being roused from sleep to find someone pawing at your pajamas? He sleeps through it now, for the most part. We still don't get to.

For the record, he is sleeping on Mindy in our little rocking chair. He has cried and moved five times since I started writing this.

This exhaustion is mind-numbing. I don't write. I don't work out. I'm lucky to make it through the day. Mindy and I crash around 9:30. And even though we sometimes sleep until 6:30 or 7:00, it doesn't matter. It doesn't feel like sleep. We are not rested.

I know you've heard this from me before. I'm sorry you have to hear it again. The doctors haven't listened so far, so my hope is that you will.

I'm not getting excited about our appointment on Monday. I'm sure a doctor will barely touch him and wave his hands around and say the same shit we've heard before. I want to believe that he'll know exactly what to do. That he'll laugh and a give a solution and Cyrus will be normal.

Whatever it is that toddlers eat, and however much they do, I want my son to do it, too.

Sleep-Waking

It's been a long while since we talked. You might think that everything is going smashingly, I guess compared to last year at this time, we're fucking living at Disneyland.

Cyrus is healthy and incredibly charming. He can wave and blow kisses. He can kind of say words. He stands on his own, reaches his arms high above his head and waits for you to say "Sooo big." He likes to play with bouncy balls. He loves the cat, Remy, and when he's not pulling at his fur, he's looking at his face saying, "gung-gung." He loves his moms. I look forward to the day we have conversations, but for now, I accept his open mouth kisses and teeny baby hugs.

He's nineteen months, but should be 16 months. He's behind, for sure, but he's doing it. And he will do it. One day he took two wobbly steps. I snatched him off his feet, pulled him to my kisses, and cried. At one time, you'll remember, we didn't know, you know...

If you're not close to us in a geographical sense, you might be totally alarmed to know he still eats nothing with his mouth. That's right; all of his calories come from a feeding tube and a hole in his stomach. Now, here you go, saying things like, "Well, you should feel soooooo lucky that that is all that he has wrong with him." And you know, we are very, very lucky. But that doesn't mean it's alright that we feed our child with a tube.

The doctors seem to think so, though. They don't give a fuck. In the 16 months that Cyrus has been home, we've asked doctor after doctor why our son won't eat. They mumble something, send us to someone else, and we never hear from them again. There have been a few tests a few answers, but it all turned out to be bullshit.

Once our awesome pediatrician left, we had to find another. He seemed nice enough, even told us he had a tube fed son. We sat in his office and said, "No one will listen to us," and he gave the impression of listening. We said we wanted to find the real answer to why Cyrus gags and retches and won't eat. He sent us to St. Louis to a feeding clinic. We took our Speech Pathologist, the only person in the world who seems to care this is happening, and the results were just as I suspected: nothing. They basically said, well, we are a speech pathologist and an OT and you guys have all that at home. I cussed.

Parenthood is isolating, frustrating, and exhausting. The small moments of joy are overshadowed by doctors who won't listen and others who don't understand. We are still tired, as I imagine most parents are, but we were exhausted before we even began. We take turns getting up around 2:30 every night to give the little man his quit-retching drug. Since he started daycare in August, he's been sick a lot. And when Cyrus is sick, he coughs. When he coughs he gags on his own mucous. Then he retches. And screams. Screaming makes him cough... We never seem to sleep.

Even if it's not my night, I wake up. When it is my night, I give the drug and then lie awake for an hour, sometimes two. Just as I slip back to sleep, he coughs or cries or makes some noise to wake me, and the process starts again. I don't know why I try to sleep anymore. I fantasize, as I toss and grunt in bed, that I could get up and start writing. That the middle of the night should be my writing time. I imagine that I'm some machine. That sleep is a stupid excuse that lazy people need to justify not doing anything. But I don't have the strength to get up. So I stare off into the nothingness on the verge of tears. They never come.

Just the other night Mindy woke me up saying she was going to call the doctor. He had a fever of 104.1. While we sat up, looking to see if the tylenol would help, I suggested we turn on the t.v. The over head light was low and we watched some documentary about Pompeii. It was about 2:00 a.m., so my body was used to being awake. It was nice. It was time we spent together. In that hour, I was convinced yet again, that I could live without sleep. That I could stay awake all night catching up on all the films I've neglected to watch, reading all the books I don't make time for in the daylight, writing and revising all of this fucking blog. All of everything I've ever written.

I've heard it too many times: "Having a baby is hard work, but I wouldn't trade him/her for the world." Well, of course you wouldn't, that would make you a horrible parent and human being. But you're all lying. You'd trade money for some time alone, for some time out with your friends, for some time out with your loved one. You'd trade lots of shit if someone watched him while you took a vacation. Somewhere with a beach, even though you hate sand. Somewhere that looked nothing like work, home, or a doctor's office. You'd trade him, not forever, but for a while, for some sleep. Some sanity.